The Holiday Waywards
by KLMeri
Summary: Jim's in jail on Christmas Eve... pre-Kirk/McCoy, space wrapped prompt fic - COMPLETE
1. Foreword

**Title**: The Holiday Waywards (Not the Holiday Wise)  
**Author**: klmeri  
**Fandom**: Star Trek AOS  
**Pairing**: pre-Kirk/McCoy  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word Count**: 33943  
**Setting**: AU  
**Summary**: Tis the season, and Christopher Pike had a life. In fact he had an expensive bottle of brandy, a backlog of party invitations, and the attention of the pretty brunette at the opposite end of the bar. These things only served to make his regret infinitely more poignant when he answered a call and was reminded he had something else in his life too: a boy named Jim Kirk. "Hey, Dad," Jim shouted over a racket of noise, "bad news!" ...and it was unfortunate news indeed. Jim was in jail. On Christmas Eve.  
Or, the story in which Pike is a saintly Father of Christmas, Jim has fallen in with a gang of elves, and nobody but Jim's best friend is confessing to the crime of who stole the North Star.  
**Prompt**: _Jim's in jail on Christmas Eve. Does Bones bail him out?_ (The answer to this prompt, from my humble writer's perspective, is no. It's much more complicated than that. Then again, Bones may have his part to play in freeing Jim.)  
**Warnings**: Extensive use of Jonathan Archer from _ST: Enterprise_, grossly mis-characterized by yours truly as seen in the Playtime 'verse. (That's right—he's back!) Also, moderate profanity.  
**A/N**: Dedicated to **hora_tio**, whose faith in Pike and Jim and the premise of this story not only inspired me but kept me afloat when I was ready to give up.  
This is not going to the best thing you've ever read but hopefully it won't be the worst either. I have written Pike as a father before (the Playtime series) and this story is sort of a reprisal of that - with a twist. There is a Mystery To Be Solved. There may be unrequited love. There will be, of course, insane plot and insaner characters. So read on if you dare! ;)

**FYI**: EPUB Project is in progress. To request .epub or .mobi format of one of my fics, go to my journal (writer-klmeri. livejournal dotcomslash 196569. html).


	2. I: Pike

**I: Pike**

_We do not what we ought;  
What we ought not, we do;  
And lean upon the thought  
That chance will bring us through;_

Arnold: Empedocles on Etna

* * *

_"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun..." _The twang of a singer is a mellifluous undertone in the bustling bar. Someone laughs loudly, like the striking of a chord, and the tune of the jukebox changes to Elvis' rendition of "Silent Night". With each open and close of the door, the smell of lit cigarettes wafts into the crowded room and thickens into a smoky cloud over the heads of the bar's patrons.

Christopher Pike lowers the cell phone from his ear and the noise around him dips then swells again before returning to its regular tempo. He gingerly lays the phone on the bar countertop and considers briefly putting his head down beside it. The better option seems like reaching for the unopened brandy in front of him. He removes the cap with one decisive twist and takes the first swallow of liquor straight from the bottle. A bartender, a young man in his twenties, looks from Pike to the bottle to the empty shot glass and shakes his head slightly. No doubt the sight of a weary face drowning its woes on a lonely Christmas Eve is nothing new.

If only Chris's troubles were that simple. He replays the conversation with the caller in his head as the brandy leaves a fiery trail from esophagus to stomach.

"Hey, Dad," Jim had said, shouting over a din of noise, "bad news—I'm sorta in jail!"

There is no 'sorta' when it comes to incarceration. They both know it because, first of all, Chris Pike is an officer of the law and, second, Jim has spent equally as much time on one side of the iron bars of a jail cell as on the other. Suffice to say, the boy's teenage years were hell. Amazing, really, that Chris survived it.

Getting arrested has never bothered Jim much, as a child or an adult. The experience, in the past, was often more traumatic for the city police department (i.e. dealing with a sulky teen who had the finely honed skills of a professional escape artist—no one ever successfully kept Jim in handcuffs for more than twenty minutes) and in particular for Pike, who had been conditioned since his second year of parenthood to check the arrest roster immediately after he came off a shift. Each time Jim's name was on that list—such was a regular event every few months or so—Chris's distress gradually turned towards resignation. No amount of sympathetic pats to his shoulder by other officers with families and the repeated assurance of "Don't worry, it's just a stage, he'll grow out of it" eased his suffering. So he threw out every parenting book in his house and decided his life with Jim was a new standard. Somehow he adapted. They both did.

"_Adolescent stage, my ass_," Pike mutters, returning his thoughts to the present. With regret, he puts aside the only thing which could successfully calm his nerves. He needs to be sober to drive.

Jim is old enough to have finished college and is, in fact, living in a college town. Pike has moments of pride when he thinks of how responsible his son is now. Then he has moments of gut-churning fear because Jim is _on his own_. If the boy had moved out-of-state rather than an hour away, Pike wouldn't know how to cope. He is not overprotective; he's simply of the belief he is the universe's sole restraining influence over the one and only Jim Kirk. And, as fate would see fit to have it, Jim has an unholy penchant for attracting trouble wherever he goes. Thus it is a fact of life they need each other: Pike because he loves the boy, and Jim because—because who else besides Chris would cancel his holiday plans (without yelling, he might add) and drive eighty miles in sleeting conditions on the simple request of "Can you come?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose and standing up, he pays his tab and leaves the bartender a generous tip in addition to the change. "Merry Christmas," the young man tells Pike, smiling as he collects his money.

Chris responds with a sigh. Christmas was looking merry until about fifteen minutes ago, when he asked his son, "How bad is it?" Jim had hesitated over the answer, and that alone still wreaks havoc with Chris's blood pressure. The hesitation means, no matter how Jim downplays what is going on, the charges must be more serious than the usual slap on the wrist for disorderly conduct.

He zips up his jacket and tries not to conjure horrific scenarios on too little information, wrapping his fingers around the car keys in one of the jacket's pockets. Before leaving, Chris catches and holds the bartender's attention. "If anybody gives you trouble—"

"—call the cops," the bartender finishes. "I got it. G'night, Detective."

"You too, kid."

On the way to the exit, he avoids meeting the gaze of the brunette with whom he had previously fantasized he might share a drink. Disappointment is a sharp bone in his throat but he swallows it. Family comes first, Pike knows, even when that family has gotten himself thrown in jail on the jolliest night of the year. He is still reflecting upon that thought in the parking lot as he starts his truck. Inevitably he wonders if Jim's housemate (and proclaimed best friend) is aware of where the kid has landed himself.

The roads are streaks of dark, salted pavement in a wintry landscape. All is silent except for the low hum of his Ford's engine, the methodical click-clack of wiper-blades and the occasional passing car. Twin ghoulish beams of light from his headlamps cut through the soft snowfall and reflect against icy patches along the roadside. He can distinguish shapes no more than ten yards out, but what he can see is enough to help him navigate the interstate.

To stay safe, Chris drives at half his normal speed. Jim can take the extra hour to sit and think about how grown men are supposed to act—not like buffoons—and how much trouble he is going to be in—a lot, which for some reason is a thought that rarely occurs to the boy. (Sadly, Pike suspects he has failed to become an intimidating parent.) Chris entertains himself on the long drive by imagining Jim's sudden heartfelt regret for being a troublesome son; he takes his imagination one step further and has Jim say to him, "Dad, you are right. You are _always _right. Thank god for you!" He suspects this is the validation most parents want from their children.

Sighing forlornly, Chris squints through the windshield at yet another car abandoned by the road. It is difficult to tell if the car is occupied; it sits idle, like a lump of snow, blending into the white night. No hazard lights. Reluctantly Chris returns his attention to the highway, speeds up, and presses on.

The thirty-mile marker triggers a memory out-of-the-blue. Chris is taken back to a casual phone conversation with his son some weeks ago. Jim had talked enthusiastically about his new job (that is, his _third _job in six months, which is partly the cause of Jim's father's endless headaches), new co-workers, and holiday schedule. They had tried to figure out when would be the best time for Chris to visit, and Jim had mentioned Leonard might spend the holidays with them too since McCoy could not go home to Georgia due to the timing of a much-awaited hospital internship.

Both amused and nearing abject despair, Chris tightens his grip on the steering wheel and draws a conclusion as inevitable as two plus two equals four. He groans. Leonard is with Jim for Christmas, and Jim is in jail. Therefore Leonard is in jail too. That answers the question whether or not McCoy knows where Jim is.

"Damn," he tells the interior of his truck. His retirement savings account is going to be a lot lighter come Christmas morning. Chris attempts rather masochistically in that moment to add up all of the income he has lost to bail fees. If he cries a little over the grand total, well, there is no one around to judge him for the tears.

Forty miles of depressingly upbeat Christmas songs and heavy sighs later, a road sign illuminated by his headlights looms out of the dark, announcing the invisible change of county lines. Utilizing the memory of his last visit to this part of the state and a myriad of street signs, he manages to find a location that looks vaguely like the center of town draped beneath a white blanket. From there, the Sheriff's department stands out like the beacon of a lighthouse next to the sea and Chris drives toward it. The light feels less welcoming once he pulls into a near-empty parking lot edged with wet snow and exits his vehicle. Pike lingers for a half of a minute by his truck, releasing one white-plumed breath after another into the air. He wipes at his eyes and finally steels himself to do what eons of parents have steeled themselves to do before him—saving offspring from regrettable folly. Then he trudges toward the double-door entrance, a thin layer of newly frozen ice crunching under his boots.

The air inside the Sheriff's department is blazing hot. Chris immediately sheds his jacket. After eyeing the unmanned receptionist desk, he considers both ends of a gloomy hallway and heads toward the muted sound of a radio. At the turn of the corner is another corridor leading into a large, open room of the building. Pike pauses just within threshold of its swinging door to make a quick assessment what he sees. Desks are crammed together on either side of a wide walkway, two of which are occupied by hunched figures. A battered-looking copier is tucked between a long table and a wall with built-in mailboxes. By another wall, this one windowless, a middle-aged, balding man in uniform rummages through a filing cabinet. The room smells strongly of burnt coffee and pine-scented potpourri.

Nearest to Pike are two male teenagers on a bench. One is contemplating his handcuffs with a mouth drooping at the corners, and the other has his eyes closed and chin touching his chest. Drool drips slowly onto a thin t-shirt. At the back of the room is another overly large door, and Chris guesses this leads to the rest of the department: the evidence room, the lab and lockers, various offices, and holding cells. He walks over to a sectioned area that resembles an unkempt booking station and waits for an attendant. But no one comes to greet him.

Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Chris pivots slowly in a circle and weighs his options. He could talk to the deputy at the desk three strides away, who has at least five empty McDonald's chicken nugget containers scattered on top of his paperwork, or he could interrupt the older fellow slamming the filing cabinet drawers with a viciousness that indicates anger management issues, a bad divorce, or both. Chris doesn't consider talking to the obviously new deputy (the rookie, most would call him) because said young man is not looking at his desk but at his lap, where he is playing a handheld video game.

The awake and aware delinquent on the bench whispers at Pike, "Man—hey, _man_, you got a smoke?"

"Smoking is bad. You're a minor," Chris responds offhandedly and moves toward Chicken McNugget Deputy.

"Narc!" the kid cries to Pike's back.

Somewhere a door opens and an irritable voice growls, "Shut it, kid!" Pike turns in the direction of the booming voice, relieved that the chances of speaking to a competent individual may have possibly improved. After a brief silence the disembodied voice rumbles louder than ever, "Well, fuck me, if it isn't Christopher Pike!"

Pike raises his eyebrows as a shadow shapes itself out of a doorway into a man of average height and a face Chris hasn't seen in years. In seconds, he's grinning. "Jonathan Archer," he names the man, taking a hold of a proffered hand and pumping it. "It's been a while."

"Since the Academy?"

"Not that long. We attended the same law enforcement convention at the capitol fourteen years ago."

Archer grins too. "Oh, yeah, I remember now! You passed up on drinks to study for your exam." He looks Pike over. "I heard you made senior detective by the age of thirty-four. Always did like making the rest of us look bad, didn't you, Pike?"

"Not a hard thing to do in your case, Jon."

Jonathan laughs, slapping him unnecessarily hard on the back. "You realize I outrank you, right? I'm a sheriff now."

"I had noticed," Chris replies dryly. Only a blind man could miss the emblazoned SHERIFF stamped on Archer's jacket. "Congratulations on the re-election."

Archer looks pleased. "So you have been keeping tabs on me."

"I wouldn't say that." Pike catches the curious look of the young deputy, who had been invested in his Nintendo only moments ago. "Kind of quiet in here tonight."

"It's only ten," the sheriff says, "and this is a college town. The kiddies are barely past their first round of drinks. Things will liven up."

Chris sobers at that, remembering his reason for standing in the department in the first place. Perhaps Archer notices the change in his expression because the man asks, lowering his voice, "What brings you to my neck of the woods, Detective?"

He draws in a deep breath. "My son, actually, who I've been told is currently locked up in your jail."

Jon's reactions are mixed—disbelief, amusement, and an odd resolve—before his face finally settles into a grim visage. "...No."

Pike's shoulders sink slightly. "Yes, I'm afraid."

"Oh god," Jon asks, "which one is yours? Wait. It's the broody one. Gotta be. He looks like he's been sucking on a lemon since the age of two."

Pike's mouth quirks up and down because he doesn't know whether to smile or frown. "Damn, I can't decide who you're really trying to insult. And no, he's not mine. Kirk is."

"Oh, shit."

"Thank you," he says, perversely amused, "that's the kindest thing anyone has said to me on that score."

Jonathan squeezes Chris's shoulder with one of his broad hands, a sudden, sharp look in his eyes. "Why don't we go into my office?"

Pike realizes then they have the attention of the few occupants of the room. And he has the feeling whatever Archer has to say about Jim's arrest is best not shared with the world. So he follows Archer through a winding path between the desks and into an office with an antiquated interior design. Jonathan closes the door then the blinds over the windows.

Immediately Chris turns to face him, dread turning his hands cold. "It's serious?"

Archer is silent for a long minute.

"Jonathan," Chris squares his shoulders, "Jim may be my son but I'm not here to bargain if—" He rephrases what he wants to say. "—I uphold the law. I can be objective about this. Give me some credit, officer to officer." He hates that that last part might sound like a plea.

"We've got a tradition here," Archer says at last, "and it's pretty important to a lot of people. Because of that, the crime isn't as trivial as it seems on paper. Otherwise I'd have booted him and his buddies outta here hours ago."

"Explain."

"Maybe you should sit down."

"Don't pussyfoot around!" Pike snaps. "_Tell me_."

"What do you know about our Christmas parade?" Jonathan asks slowly.

Chris restrains his temper and answers, "I was here for it a few years back." When Jim left for college, he doesn't add. He remembers there being too many people for the size of the town, close to a thousand of them, in a one-block radius. It seemed like a big affair.

"People come from all over the county for it," Jon says, as if he knows what Pike is thinking. "Did you stay until the end?"

"No."

The other man sighs and leans against the doorframe. "Then I don't expect you would know about the importance of the North Star."

Chris has some difficulty making sense of that statement. "North Star?"

"It's a town tradition to put up this gigantic star on Christmas Day once the parade loops back to the Village. The damn thing itself is ancient but the tradition has been an annual event since the founding of the city. Mayor gives a speech 'n everything." A shadow crosses the sheriff's face. "And your kid took it. Or at least it seems he did."

"What?" Confused, Pike tightens his fists and wills away a bad feeling.

"It goes on the biggest goddamn Christmas tree in the state, if that tells you anything of our pride," Archer finishes grimly. "So if the star isn't back where it needs to be for the end of tomorrow's parade, Jim Kirk will go down in the history books as the man who ruined Christmas for this county."

Pike sinks into the nearest chair, words coming unbidden to his lips. "Jim wouldn't do that."

"From what I've been told," the sheriff says gently, "he would. He hates Christmas, doesn't he?"

"That's personal," Pike replies lowly, "and not enough reason to pin a theft on him."

Jonathan spreads his hands, palms out. "I agree with you. I completely agree, but the mayor's beyond pissed that somebody wants to ruin his party tomorrow, especially since he came so close to losing the election. Jim is the only lead we have right now." He lowers his hands and narrows his eyes. "Listen, I know you're a good cop and an even better detective. You make headlines often enough."

Chris almost blurts out _You buy our city paper? Geez, that's not creepy at all, Jon. _Then again, Jon has always had a bit of a competitive streak—even if the chosen opponent has no idea he is part of a competition.

"I want these kids to go home as much as you do," his friend continues, "but unless they start talkin', I don't expect a one of 'em to wake up to Santa's presents under the tree in the morning. They've already mutinied against me, and you can see how short-staffed I am tonight."

"You're saying you want my help. Jon, this isn't my jurisdiction. I can't—"

"Screw protocol."

Chris's mouth twitches. "I see you haven't changed your ways."

"I have a deadline and an angry politician riding my ass. I doubt anybody's going to care how we find the star, only that we do."

Pike walks to one of the wide windows of Archer's office and peers through the drawn blinds. There is a tiny sprig of a tree branch decorated with two strings of stale popcorn by a beat-up old coffee pot, such a sad show of Christmas festivity, and beyond it, the dour faces of the three deputies who either unluckily drew the holiday shift or volunteered to come in because they have nowhere else to be. The two teenagers are gone and in their place, handcuffed to the bench, is an older male with an eye patch in a skin-tight outfit. Considering the looks the man is getting from the nearest deputies, he must be a prostitute.

Chris thinks of his boy, who never celebrated Christmas because the anniversary of his birth father's death until Pike adopted him.

"All right," he says, "I'll do it."

Archer clasps a friendly hand on his shoulder. "You're a good man, Christopher."

"Remind me of that in a couple of hours," he remarks dryly, shrugging out of his jacket. The chances that Jim, Pike's wonderful and disturbingly ill-fortuned son, isn't involved in the town catastrophe in some ridiculous and migraine-producing way are slim. Very slim. He isn't foolish enough to think otherwise.

Jon steps back. "You know, of course, I have to draw the line at letting you talk to Kirk, given the conflict of interest."

"Your scruples are unbelievably incongruous, Sheriff, but I have to say right now that's for the best." If he gets his hands on Jim while on these premises, he will wind up handcuffed next to the hooker for child abuse—even if his son is nearly twenty-four.

"I'll take you to the back." Archer turns for the door, only to pause with his hand on the doorknob, expression bemused. "How'd you end up with a kid anyway?"

"It's a long story."

"Entertain me."

"Jim was eleven the first time I met him. He was living at a boys' home and had stolen the new director's Corvette. I was on highway patrol."

Archer whistles and opens the door. They skirt a wall, go through the swinging door opposite of the office and enter a hallway, only to stand aside to make room for a newly arrived deputy herding a single-file line of DUIs. The DUIs wobble by like baby ducklings, looking more bewildered than drunk.

"Good," Jon mutters, rubbing his hands together with glee, "the roadblocks are working. So, eleven, huh?" He snorts. "I've pulled over a fourteen year-old before. I bet the kid was pissed that you caught him."

That had been an astonishing moment in Chris's life, to be idling in the usual stakeout spot to catch speeding motorists, only to have a red sports car shoot by at ninety miles an hour with the crown of the driver's golden head barely topping the steering wheel. It had been more astonishing what had happened next. "I didn't catch him. He drove the car straight off a highway embankment into the pond behind a Walmart."

"...Well, shit. Is this one of those stories that gets worse the longer you tell it? Was he drunk?"

Chris snorts. "No." But the story _was _worse than that, actually. He had learned later Jim hadn't been breaking the law simply for the sake of joy-riding in a stolen vehicle. It had been with the attitude that the completion of his mission (to destroy the car) was do-or-die, regardless of the police pursing him. Pike's heart had been in his throat as the car swung off the highway at a break-neck speed. He realized in that moment something terrible was going to happen (like a person committing suicide in front of him) and he wasn't in a position to stop it; then the driver-side door of the Corvette had swung open and the boy threw himself clear. Only the car met its demise in the shallow man-made pond that day.

Pike relives that moment in his nightmares, though less often now than he used to. Sometimes Jim doesn't make it out of the car before impact, and Chris is standing over a grave. He will jerk awake, sweat pooling under his body and a loud ringing in his ears.

"The director wanted Jim sent to Juvie but it was a first offense."

He remembers how unsteady his hands had been when he checked the child over for injuries (of which there were none other than superficial scrapes from doing a dive-roll across a gravel parking lot) and demanded a name. Jim had identified himself readily, eyes bright and daring: "_James Tiberius Kirk_." He said it like Pike ought to know the name; like the world should know who James Tiberius Kirk is and moreover the world ought to be terrified.

Pike had decided then Jim wasn't simply a stupid, under-privileged kid with a huge chip on his shoulder. He was a sun that was going to burn itself out before its time if no one intervened. So Jim got the kindest judge in the county at the hearing, courtesy of a few called-in favors, and six months later Officer Christopher Pike had an adopted son.

To this day, he doesn't ask himself why it mattered so much that he saved Jim (and only Jim, despite there being so many boys and girls who could have used his protection too) because the reason is slightly selfish. The outcome, though, has done both of them good—if one discounts the trials and tribulations of their everyday lives.

As he and Archer near the end of the hallway, Chris questions, "You implied there were multiple accomplices. How many did you bring in besides Jim and Leonard?"

"Huh, how'd you know about the McCoy kid?"

"One with the sour face, remember? Besides," Chris adds with mild amusement, "where Jim is, there too shall McCoy be. And vice versa. I doubt you could have arrested one without having the other go ape-shit and get himself arrested too."

"That's just sad." Archer's mouth is curving.

"Pathetic more like."

They share a small smile. He and Jon were that close once, long ago, before their career paths lead them to different counties and for a while different states. Sometimes Chris remembers his early twenties with fondness. Mostly he worries Jim is repeating the same mistakes he made as a young adult, or worse ones, and spends days on end trying to figure out a way to say "don't do that or you'll be sorry" without sounding condescending or parental. Jim has always had an aversion to thinking he might need a parent. Whether that is a fault of his willful personality or having no family to take him in at a young age, Pike does not know.

"Four," Jon says as he inputs a code into a keypad by a thick metal door and the lock releases.

"Four?"

"Four perps besides the two joined at the hip." The sound of their footsteps echo ahead of them. The temperature is significantly colder here than in the main building. Archer makes a sharp turn into a small room buzzing with live feeds from strategically placed security cameras. He points to one of the feeds.

Chris leans in to look. Right away he picks Jim out in the middle cell. The boy has his back to the camera but he is standing on his own two legs, arms crossed in a typical stance that means _I-am-opposed-to-your-authority_, one Pike has seen too many times to count. Kirk appears to be talking to someone in drag. Chris frowns and squints. No, not drag... A costume? The fuzzy black-and-white image does not lend any further explanation.

"That's one of Santa's little helpers," Jon says smugly as he guesses where Pike's attention is directed.

"You arrested elves?"

"Best arrest ever," Jon tells him gleefully. "I never had so much fun crashing a Santa's Village party! Usually we do a dope bust. The owner is paranoid about the habits of his employees." But the man's grin falters in another moment, and Chris watches in fascination as Jon begins to scowl.

"So which one got away from you?" he asks, already seeing where this is headed.

Archer curses. "Little bugger was fast and took off in a van during the chaos. But I'll get him, Pike, mark my words. I've got four patrols out looking for 'im."

"Why so many?"

The air of menace dissipates slightly. "The owner got a call. Someone said they saw the star being loaded into the back of a company van."

The reality of the situation kills the humorous mood, and Pike returns to staring at Jim on the tiny tv screen. _Turn around, son, so I can see you_, he begs silently. But Jim doesn't.

Chris finally notices another familiar form, that which might be McCoy, but the person is sitting down with his head bowed so it is impossible to confirm the identity. Chris sighs through his nose and straightens with clear reluctance. "Okay, I've seen enough. We'll pull them out one by one for questioning."

"That's not gonna phase 'em. They've already seen the inside of the interrogation room."

It's so easy to slip the mask on, to become the cop and instead of the father. "Not with me in it."

Jon studies Chris with a mouth that does not laugh and an eerie, assessing calm in his eyes. Then the man nods once to signify some agreement, though Pike does not know if Jon is agreeing with the plan or with some unspoken decision of his own.

The sheriff pulls open the door. "Tell me what you need, Detective, and it's yours."

"I want to review the report and the statements first. Then I'll let you know."

Pike doesn't ask himself what he will do if Jim is guilty. He tries his best not to think about his son at all once he puts his back to the security footage. There can be no room for inner turmoil. Christopher is on the clock now as a man of the law, of justice, and this is a case which must be solved, however it fell into his hands. Once the answers and the perpetrators of the crime are known, there will be time enough to feel as a father and to be relieved—or to fall to pieces.


	3. II: Chekov

**II: Chekov**

_How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?_

Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet, II, ii

* * *

The arrest report reads: _Pavel Chekov_, _Age: 21._

Chris does a double-take at the waif-like person shuffling into the interrogation room next to one of Archer's deputies. Chekov stays quiet, shoulders hunched, while his escort clicks open the pair of handcuffs, guides Chekov to a chair, and handcuffs him again, this time to a steel bar built next to the table's edge. The metal table itself is bolted to the floor. Chekov won't be going anywhere unless he has superhuman strength or a key.

Behind his stony mask, Pike's first thoughts are _Oh hell, he's just a kid_ and _Why aren't this boy's parents here? _Legally 21 or not, Pavel has the face of a fifteen year-old. And that young face sports an even younger, trapped look in the eyes. Like Pavel thinks he is facing his death and Pike is the executioner.

The fragile persona is only made worse by Chekov's ridiculously adorable elf costume.

Chris has dealt with his share of troubled teens in the throes of budding criminal careers. It's easier to play the tough cop in such situations because if the boys are young enough and innocent enough, they can eventually be scared into straightening out their lives. But there are always the exceptions, the horrors: those kids, despite their young bodies, with the eyes of hardened adults. No threat Pike can make is nearly as terrifying as the hardships they've already lived through—and they know it. They choose the hard path not out of ignorance or rebellion but with a keen awareness of what a life of crime means and what it will garner them. Turning them back from that path is difficult once that kind of conscious choice has been made.

To Pike's experienced eye, Pavel seems innocent of such a choice. He hopes so.

Chris approaches the table but doesn't sit in the chair opposite of Chekov. Sitting is often viewed as a concession, and it's one of the oldest psychological tricks in the book. At the same eye level they might be considered equals, and the interrogator might give the impression he is willing to play nice. Chris is not willing, not yet. He lets his voice crack like a whip through the silence.

"Your name."

The kid tries to make himself smaller in his chair. "Pavel C-Chekov." His accent, Russian if Pike had to guess, is thick with fear.

Pike makes a slow half-circle around his side of the table. "Mr. Chekov, do you understand why you are here?"

"I-I am under a-arrest, sir."

"I meant do you understand the charges against you?" He drops a case file on the table and leans over it, hands braced on the table's edge. "Breaking-and-entering, theft, resisting arrest," he gives Chekov a hard look, "and obstruction of justice."

The pallor of Pavel's skin, his large eyes, and somewhat pointed face in conjunction with the festive costume (especially the hat with the bell) makes him look more elfish than ever. Pike allows for a pause, in which Pavel's breath hitches noisily, before slowly straightening his stance. "We can make a deal, of course, to minimize the charges if you have something of interest to say."

Half of the interrogation technique is bluffing but Pavel won't guess that. He's too wound up.

The kid mumbles something, his accent mangling words.

Without thinking, Pike tucks his hands in his pants pockets and leans forward. "Who took the star, Pavel?"

Pavel looks frightened even as he shakes his head. "I do not know!"

"Tell me why I should believe you."

"Because I vas not _there!_"

"At the party?"

Chekov's head stops mid-shake. "No, no. The party, it vas for us." He plucks at his sleeve. "I am an elf."

Chris suppresses a smile and prowls from one end of the mirrored wall to the other. "Start at the beginning. How long have you worked in Santa's Village, Mr. Chekov?"

"T-This is my first season. I start one month ago. I help ze small children onto Santa's lap."

"What else do you do?"

Pavel makes a face. "I clean ze bathrooms. Sometimes I gift-wrap with Nyota when there are many customers."

"I see. When did you learn there was to be an employee party on Christmas Eve?"

Pavel wrinkles his nose slightly as he thinks. "There vas an annoucement by ze manager... on last Saturday. I remember this because someone had—mm, how do you say?—" He indicates his lower abdomen. "—bad stomach? Zhey pooped everywhere. Big mess. I stay until nine o'clock that night cleaning."

Pike puts a fist against his mouth, and it is some seconds before he can successfully swallow his laugh. He pretends to read something in the file while he clears his throat. "Santa's Village employs over fifty people, some to operate the gift store, the rides, the candy cane hut... and, of course, at the center of it all is Santa himself—where you work."

Chekov nods. "We are ze best group. Everyone says so. Children want most to talk to Santa."

"Is it normal then for the supervisors, like yours, to host separate parties at the end of the season? I would think hosting a main event to include for all employees would be more fair."

"Maybe? I-I do not know." Pavel's anxiety is returning.

Chris decides to switch track in his questioning, to give Chekov back some illusion of safe ground. "You have a work visa. And you attend university here in town?"

Pavel nods.

"What is your area of study?"

Pavel's shaking lessens as he answers Pike's seemingly innocuous questions about the study abroad program that brought the young man to America. Chris doesn't stop Chekov when he starts to speak of his host family. The topic lends the perfect opening.

"So you like living with the Sulu's."

A shy smile spreads across Pavel's face as he nods.

"It says here—" He taps the case file. "—that your host brother has worked several seasons at the Village. Is he the one who got you the job?"

"I want to make extra money. My scholarship, it is not for personal things. My mother and my sister—they like the little trinkets I send them but I thought something better... Hikaru said the Village is nice. Easy work. So I work there."

Not only is the poor child adorable but he's sweet too. Pike feels bad about what he is going to do to Pavel. "Do you like Hikaru?"

Pavel's cheeks redden. "_Da_."

"Do you trust him?"

"Da—excuse me, yes."

"So he treats you well, lands you a good job and in return... for what?"

The boy blinks, watching Pike's face. "I... Vhat do you mean?"

"What's in it for him? He doesn't really know you, does he, Pavel? You're the exchange student living in his house for a semester. You're invading his life because of a decision _his_parents made. So not only does he have to babysit you around campus, but be responsible for you outside of school and home too? My question, Mr. Chekov, concerns the motive for such an act of kindness. What do you do for him in return?"

The color, which had slowly drained from Pavel's face, returns in a sudden rush. The handcuffs pull taunt against the bar on the table as Chekov's arm jerks upward, like he would grab for Pike. In his ire, Chekov's English becomes remarkably intelligible. "You—you have no right to say these things! Hikaru is nice _here_—" He points at his ribcage, indicating what lies beneath it, with his free hand. "—and _that_is why he helps me. You judge falsely. You do not know him!"

Pike drags the chair back and sits down, leaning his elbows on the table. He drops his voice. "Then where was he tonight, Pavel?"

"He was with me."

"And where were you?"

"I told you, I was at the party. He was talking to people. A girl, Nyota. I made us drinks because he did not want beer."

"So you weren't with him all night."

"No—yes! You are trying to confuse me!"

Pike sits back. "Do you know how I know you're lying to me, kid? I have a statement from each of you, and they couldn't paint a clear picture on a sunny day. Hikaru never talked to Nyota Uhura because he never stepped a foot inside that party. I don't need to prove it. You've done that for me."

Pavel looks stricken.

"Without a solid alibi, he could have been at the scene of the crime. When the fingerprints come back from the lab, it's simply a matter of confession. But we don't always need one of those to indict."

"You can't!"

He laughs like Chekov made a joke.

"But Hikaru did not do anything!" Pavel says hurriedly. "He only went to the office—" The boy's mouth snaps shut.

"Whose office?"

"I do not know."

"We can play at twenty questions until dawn, Pavel, but I guarantee you, by then somebody will have to take the fall for the crime. If you really believe Mr. Sulu is innocent, then you shouldn't be afraid to tell me the truth." Chris sighs softly. "His parents will be devastated."

It's the final blow. Pavel crumples. "He said he had to go to the office. He said I should not ask why so I did not."

"Whose office?"

"The manager's."

"Can you guess at who he was meeting or what he was looking for there?"

The young man shakes his head.

"Did Sulu go alone?"

Pavel looks like he is going burst into tears if Pike keeps at him any longer. "With Scotty's friend."

Lowering his hands to grip his knees, Chris knows the table will hide his reaction. "You mean Jim Kirk."

"Da."

"Your cooperation is appreciated, Mr. Chekov," Christopher says gently.

But Pavel does not reply. He does not even raise his head as Pike nods to the mirror to signal the deputy can be let back in and the interrogation is over. Chris waits until Chekov has dejectedly shuffled from the room before he says aloud, "Bring in the manager next. Let's find out what was kept in that office." He turns to the last page in the file, drags his finger down to a name and memorizes it.

* * *

There is a necessary delay between interviews so Pike can gather his thoughts, makes notes in an official report, and discuss what has been revealed so far with Archer. Chris slips from the room with the intention of finding the bathroom; he never feels right afterward when the person he is interrogating is someone like Pavel. His gut says that Chekov may be involved through Hikaru Sulu but that involvement is limited mainly to an outsider's perspective. If the boy did anything illegal, he may not have been aware of it at the time.

Pike is washing his face and hands with tepid water from the bathroom sink when the phone in his pocket vibrates. Without thinking, he pulls it out and checks his messages.

A new text sits in his inbox, sender unknown. Chris momentarily forgets to breathe when he reads it.

_u scared pavel_

His fingers tremble as he types out in capital letters _STOP_, because this is dangerous, too dangerous. He hits Send. Immediately the text bounces back into his inbox with a delivery failure.

"Shit," he curses under his breath.

There's no doubt in his mind the text is from Jim. It doesn't seem feasible (no electronics are allowed in the jail ward) but it is. Somehow Jim has managed to find a way to communicate with him—and of course he fixed it so Pike can't communicate back.

He curses again. Jim is smart enough to know the consequences if he is caught, not simply in regards to whatever evidence might be gleaned to free him but for his father too. This could go badly in so many ways... and yet Chris is close to getting on his knees and thanking any and every deity for Jim's ingenuity. He pockets the cell phone, feeling more at ease than he has since he left the bar some hours ago.


	4. III: Spock

**III: Spock**

_He did not overlay them, superimpose  
The new upon the old and blot it out,  
But laid them on a level in his work,  
Making at last a picture;_

Browning: Cleon

* * *

Pike's facial muscles twitch of their own volition. The maddening silence of the room becomes too much, and he has to break it. "Mr. Spock, failure to cooperate will result in severe repercussions."

The manager sits straight-backed but unruffled, observing Pike with cool detachment. They might be meeting for coffee rather than squaring off in an interrogation. Chris has to admit the man has the best poker-face he has ever encountered.

"I am well-aware of my rights," Chris is informed after some seconds by an equally unaffected voice, "—particularly when they are in violation. If you continue to berate me thus, now would be one of those times, Detective Pike."

Oh, no. Chris isn't about to lose control of this interview—not when they're only a few minutes in and nothing has been said other than terse introductions. He smirks and sits on the edge of the desk. "So you're smarter than the average criminal. Congratulations."

Spock asks bluntly, not batting an eye, "Do you know who I am?"

"A guy with a pay-grade far below mine." Those hawk-like eyes darken to a near-black. Chris awards himself a point for striking a nerve. "The answer is no, and I don't care."

"I see. Perhaps that is for the best."

Pike is too smart to take the bait. "Mr. Spock," he asks, allowing for a momentary pause, "how do you know my son?"

"We were introduced twenty-one days ago through a mutual acquaintance."

Twenty-one days as opposed to three weeks? Interesting. This man either thinks highly of his intelligence, or he is just plain weird. "Tell me the story," Chris says. It isn't a request.

Spock relays in stark detail how, one day, Jim Kirk wandered onto the premises of Santa's Village upon the heels of Montgomery Scott, the Village's only mechanic on staff, and Spock had to inform Jim he was not allowed in the Employees Only area. Jim, according to the manager, began to show up in unexpected places since.

"I do not appreciate unscheduled and unnecessary visits to my office. Mr. Kirk seems inordinately fond of intruding upon my work hours."

Which may very well be Jim's misguided attempt to woo another friend, though obviously Spock does not see it that way.

As Spock talks, Chris's eyes are drawn upwards to his pointed plastic ears. The man is in full costume as a Head Elf, or whatever it is his position allots him; on the breast of his green jacket is his Manager name tag. It is pinned perfectly straight two inches below the jacket lapel. The elf cap is, incongruously, missing.

After a second or two, Pike becomes aware that silence has descended again in the room. He clears his throat. "So you do not consider yourself to be a friend of Jim Kirk's."

"I stated previously that we are acquaintances."

"What do you think of him?"

Spock moves, then, tilting his head forward slightly in concentration. He might have been trying to read Pike's mind, if such a thing were possible. "Your question is not relevant, Detective."

Pike arches one of his eyebrows. "I am the one conducting the investigation, Mr. Spock. I deem it relevant. Answer the question."

"I have no motive to frame Mr. Kirk. Nor do I have—or have had—any inclination to aid him in a committing a crime."

"Everybody's innocent until proven guilty," Pike says, showing a hint of teeth. "I'll be the judge of your motives. Now answer my question."

"Very well."

Chris has the impression Spock would steeple his fingers if one of his hands was not handcuffed to the table.

"Your son," Spock states, "is reminiscent of the common house fly—persistent, pervasive, and extremely annoying without provocation."

"And what's your remedy for an annoying fly, Mr. Spock?" Chris asks coldly. "Killing him?"

"I do not condone violence. Also, I believe you asked for my opinion."

Why would Jim ever want to be friends with this guy? Chris sighs. Knowing his son, it would seem like a challenge and that is often motivation enough in Kirk's world to want impossible things.

"Thank you for that information," he replies formally, ready to let the subject of Jim drop. "What hours did you work today?"

Spock gives him the times, and they are specific down to the minute rather than guesswork. Chris would be impressed if he isn't feeling so irritated by the man's blasé attitude concerning Jim. Comparing the response with what is written in his notes, he makes a thoughtful noise. "It matches. At least you haven't committed the age-old folly of changing your statement."

Spock's eyebrow rises. "Why would I, Detective? The statement I gave is the truth."

"So you say."

Both Spock's eyebrows lower. "What is the point of this conversation, Mr. Pike?"

"What happened to Detective?"

"Your current behavior and your title do not correlate. Therefore, I will cease to address you with that formality until you act in a manner which befits your profession."

Chris slides off the desk, stunned by Spock's audacity—and feeling his anger grow. Only the muted sound of rapping from the other side of the mirror stalls Chris's sharp-tongued reply. He walks to the door of the room and opens it to find Archer leaning out of the doorway of the adjacent room.

"Wow, this guy's more of a jackass than I am. Want me to beat him up?"

Pike would love to agree. Really he would. "Sorry, not this time."

"Not even a little?"

"He'd probably break your arm, Archer."

"Are you kidding? The guy's scrawny!"

"He's taller than you are and younger by three decades."

"I also wear a black belt in several martial arts," a voice floats through the open door behind Pike.

And the bastard has super-hearing. Pike grimaces at Archer, silently indicating that the sheriff should resume his task of surveillance, and returns to Mr. Spock.

"Is it common for the police to threaten bodily harm to their prisoners?" The manager sounds more curious than angry.

_I'm beginning to understand why it might happen more than it should. _"Depends on the officer," he replies. "No one is going to harm you to get an answer, Mr. Spock."

Spock is silent for a short moment. "Does your statement remain true if I plead the fifth?"

Chris is certain his teeth are going to shatter. "I would have to respect your rights."

"Fascinating."

"There is nothing fascinating about why you are here!" Pike snaps, losing his patience. "Do you realize that the employees under your supervision are _in jail_?"

"I cannot help but be aware of that fact, Mr. Pike," Spock responds with a hint of a dry tone. "I myself am 'in jail', as you so aptly put it."

"And that's fascinating to you?" Pike comes abreast of the table and stops there, staring at the manager. "You're not upset—about the accusations against you or the others, the threat to your future, or the likelihood that, at best, you will lose your job?"

Once again Spock's silence is maddening. Pike paces the floor, hands behind his back. How can he reach this man? How can he make him understand the risks of this entire, insane debacle? Chris comes to a sudden halt, thinking he has missed an obvious explanation, and turns on Spock.

"Who are you protecting?"

"Sir, your rationale is illogical," Spock responds stiffly, and Pike nearly smiles.

"Who? The girl?"

Spock's poker face is now an icy mask.

Pike circles the table like a vulture. "Or is it Sulu—the employee you can rely on to return every season? Maybe it's both of them or... You know, Mr. Spock, it's been said loyalty is a trait that distinguishes a warrior from a bandit. So I have to wonder: what you are fighting for here?"

"I am not fighting."

"Not physically. But with words? Oh, yes. It doesn't matter that you know something, only to whom that knowledge pertains. Let us review the facts. You indicated that to perform your managerial duties to your satisfaction your normal work hours run until late into the evening—about 10 or 11 pm. Tonight, however, you closed the office at precisely 7:04 pm to prepare for a small Christmas Eve party approved by the owner. The purpose of the party was a reward for your employees' hard work this season."

"Yes, tonight is the only exception."

"Because of the party."

"That is correct."

"Tell me again who was there."

"Mr. Chekov, Ms. Uhura, Mr. Scott, Mr. McCoy, and myself were present at the event for a majority of the time. Briefly, Mr. Sulu and Mr. Kirk also attended."

"Did it not bother you that Mr. McCoy and Mr. Kirk, who are not employed by the Village, were there?"

"I believe they were guests of Mr. Scott. Mr. Scott is considered to be a 'diamond in the rough', to quote the owner. His choice of companions is not questioned."

Pike smirks. "Because he stays on call 24/7 and works for a minimal fee."

"I did not set the terms of his employment."

"You didn't fight on his behalf either, I assume." Pike studies Spock. "Does that bother you?" Spock refuses to answer. Chris lets the question go. "Did Mr. Kirk and Mr. Sulu leave the party together?"

"Within ten minutes of one another."

"Did that not strike you as odd? Is Kirk also a friend of Sulu's?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"I see." Chris crosses his arms and plants his feet in a wide stance. "Where you do keep the key to your office, Mr. Spock?"

"There are three keys in existence. The owner has a full set of keys to the property. I retain one copy of the office key with my personal set, which I left in my jacket for the duration of the evening. I believe a deputy confiscated them upon my arrest."

"And the third set?"

Spock's answer is slower, this time. "Mr. Scott also receives a key to any main building on the grounds. As you noted, his job requires full access at any given time."

"Hm. Then I suppose it isn't too much of a leap to assume Kirk could have acquired the key from Mr. Scott. There weren't signs of forced entry to the storage room."

Spock's mouth thins the slightest bit. "I suppose that would be a reasonable explanation—if one did not take into account Mr. Scott's disposition."

"Are you saying you trust him?"

"I am the individual who suggested to the owner that Mr. Scott be allowed a third set of keys to the property, given that Mr. Scott has proven to be sufficiently trustworthy."

Spock is excellent at giving answers that aren't quite the answers Pike wants. "What would you suggest then? That Kirk stole the keys?"

Surprisingly, the manager does not latch onto the idea. Given Spock's perpetual state of annoyance with Jim, Pike expects him to readily throw Kirk to the wolves; to, in fact, insist that Jim is the sole perpetrator of the crime and the rest of them shouldn't be held on such flimsy charges.

But Spock does not, gives no hint of doing so, which makes Pike circle back around to his initial impression: there is a reason this man, no matter how arrogant he seems, is not clamoring to be removed from custody, or for the release of his companions.

Pike has a sudden suspicion that Jim and his friends want to be here. That would beg the question of why... and Chris can only make an assumption in that regard which chills him.

He tucks away the thought. Now that the manager is talking, Chris doesn't want to lose the opportunity to learn what he can. "Mr. Spock, you are a conundrum."

"As are you, sir."

What kind of game is Spock playing, or thinks he is playing? "Answer one final question."

"I will then be returned to my cell."

It isn't a question or a demand. More like hope? How extremely odd. "Yes."

"Very well. I will answer to the best of my ability and knowledge. What is your question?"

Chris doesn't ask _if_ or _why _or any nuance that Spock might turn to his advantage. The man will know the answer and give it honestly (according to his decree that he has nothing to hide), or he will not know it. Either way, Spock's answer will answer another question for Pike. And the manager will be smart enough to realize that, too.

"What did Kirk and Sulu take from your office?"

Silence ensues. Once a full minute has passed, the silence has grown heavy to the point that Christopher thinks Spock is going to plead the fifth after all. Then the man moves, placing his unfettered hand on his kneecap. He suddenly looks too grim to be an elf.

"That is a most unfortunate question, Detective Pike."

"You promised to answer it."

"I did, and I shall. What Jim Kirk and Hikaru Sulu took from my office was my coat."

Pike starts toward Spock but catches himself. He puts his hands in his pants pockets. "The coat with the keys. I thought you had that at the party."

"I said I put the keys in my coat. I did not indicate where I left the coat."

"Yet you had both with you when you entered the station. So Jim took the jacket, used the keys, and at some point returned them to you. That... is unfortunate, indeed. For all of you."

Chris turns to the mirror and nods. "We may talk again, Mr. Spock."

"It is my hope that we do not."

Chris says nothing to that. Shortly Archer and a deputy arrive. The deputy quietly escorts Mr. Spock from the room. Archer claps a hand on Pike's shoulder. "Good work!" he tells Chris.

But Chris does not want the praise. A conspiracy however small has been confirmed, and Jim is, unsurprisingly, at the head of it all.

Archer is rubbing his hands together with delight. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"The party was a ruse for the heist."

"Those little fools believe they're so smart. The problem with using a get-together as a solid alibi is that someone almost always screws it up. The inconsistencies in the statements were glaring. A monkey could point them out."

"Jon," Chris says carefully, leaning against the table, "have you considered that the inconsistencies might be on purpose?"

Jonathan looks at him, a serious expression taking the place of his gloating. "'Course I did, but we don't want to go down that road unless we absolutely have to."

Pike nods curtly. "Agreed."

"So who's next?"

"I think you know."

Archer smiles.


	5. IV: McCoy

**IV: McCoy**

_The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon  
Turns Ashes — or it prospers; and anon,  
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face,  
Lighting a little hour or two — was gone._

Fitzgerald: Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam of Naishapur

* * *

Pike has seen Leonard McCoy in many states of mind but nothing that resembles the mood riding McCoy at present. Whereas Spock had not allowed a single emotion to be known, Leonard is jittery. His leg bounces in sporadic stops and starts beneath the table. Eyes ringed by dark circles track restlessly across the room and trace the edges of the mirror. With his mouth pressed in a painfully thin line, Leonard finally returns his attention to Pike.

It is easy to tell the young man has something to say—but he is afraid of saying it. Putting aside any personal feelings, Chris remains standing in the corner of the room, arms crossed, and lets his voice carry toward the table. "So Kirk took you to a Christmas party."

"Yeah," McCoy says, voice scratchy like it hasn't been used in a while. "Some party."

"Do you know the reason he wanted to be there tonight?"

"What do you mean?" Leonard's eyes dart to the door then back to Pike. "It's a party. Booze and girls and loud music."

"From what I understand the manager only allowed beer—"

McCoy snorts.

"—and there was one girl. The music I don't know about. How was it?" he inquires in a congenial tone.

"Boring," Leonard answers instantly. "Spock chose the tunes as well as the drinks." His mouth lifts briefly at some memory. "There was vodka, though, besides the beer. The Russian kid treats it like holy water."

"Then I assume Chekov wasn't the only one enjoying it."

"All of us less boring people may have taken a shot or two. Except Jim. Jim doesn't—shit. Never mind."

Pike takes a step out of the corner. "I hope you weren't going to say he doesn't drink."

"I wasn't." Leonard must remember who he is talking to (that is, Jim's _father_) because he scrambles to correct himself. "I mean, not that Jim drinks _too much_. Sir."

Chris lets his silence speak for itself.

"Shit." McCoy raises a faintly trembling hand and pinches the bridge of his nose. Chris has to wonder how much caffeine the man has had up to this point. "I was trying to say Jim was in a mood. He didn't touch anything at the party. I can vouch for that."

"Then he must be holding up better than you. You look kind of green around the gills. Need a wastebasket?"

Dark humor flashes through McCoy's eyes. "I'm not intoxicated, sir."

"And if you had been at any point, getting arrested is enough to sober a man right up," Chris finishes for him.

"Exactly."

Pike takes another step toward the table, unfolding his arms and placing his hands in his pants pockets. "Were you with Kirk all night?"

"No, sir."

Chris waits for the explanation.

Leonard makes a fist with the hand that is handcuffed to the table and studies it. "This thing is too tight."

"I won't remove it."

"Wasn't asking you too," Leonard drawls. "Just keep 'em looser on the others, okay? Otherwise it hampers the blood flow to the hand."

"Don't avoid the question, McCoy."

"I'm not. I'm just voicing a concern. You're not out to torture us, are you?" The darkening of McCoy's eyes makes Pike wonder if he is really thinks Pike is capable of torture.

Then again, given the right provocation, human beings are capable of almost anything. As a cop, Christopher has seen that time and time again.

"Let's start with your arrival at the party. Was Jim with you then?"

"Yes. We drove over together. We picked up Scotty from his house on the way. He didn't have a ride."

"When did you lose track of Jim?"

"It wasn't long after. I'd guess fifteen minutes or so? Spock and Pavel and Hikaru were already at the party. Nyota showed up after we did. Jim said something to her about fashionably late still being late, and she told him he could shove his criticism where the sun don't shine."

"Did you see Jim leave the room?"

McCoy bites at his bottom lip. "No, sir."

It's a lie but Pike doesn't call him on it. Instead he diverts the conversation to a relatively easier route of questioning. He asks about the things Leonard did while in the company of the others. Did he notice anything unusual? People acting out of character? Who else left and when they came back.

Leonard responds to the questions reluctantly, not like he begrudges giving answers to a cop but as if he is terrified he is saying something he shouldn't. Then he remarks, on the heels of explaining that Uhura tried to get him drunk so he wouldn't fight with Spock anymore, "She said I was scaring poor Pavel—which 'poor Pavel', my ass. You ever seen Pavel break somebody's nose? I have."

Chris props his hip against the table, interested. "Did he?"

"Bunch of racist rednecks were making fun of Sulu in his elf costume. Then one of 'em called him 'an Asian queer' and Chekov pounced outta nowhere and broke the asshole's teeth. I'd have done it myself but I was too busy holding Jim back from committing murder in front of five year-olds."

How much, exactly, is going on in Jim's life that Chris has never heard about through his son? Damn, he needs to set up a spy or two in this town. "When was this?"

McCoy shrugs. "Last week? No, week before last. I don't know why but Jim likes hanging out around that place. You know how he is. Anyway, Spock threatened the asshole and his family with harassment charges and they fled. I think they realized not one of us would have claimed to have seen Chekov land that punch."

_Serves them right, _Chris thinks. "How many times have you been to Santa's Village, excluding tonight?"

"Not as many as Jim. Three that I can remember. With my school and work schedule, I don't have much free time. Also, holiday cheer gives me a migraine."

_Well that makes two of us. _"What's your impression of the people Jim has been hanging out with there?" Okay, maybe this is edging into personal territory for Chris but, as a father, he feels he has to know. If Archer has something to say about the line of questioning, it still has enough connection to the investigation that Chris can be bullshit his way out of trouble for asking it.

"Scotty is the reason Jim started going, because Jim took him to work there one day. I don't really know how he met the others. Then he dragged me out there and started introducing me to people. It was awkward for everybody but Jim."

Chris almost smiles.

"I like 'em," Leonard goes on to say. "Seem like decent folk. I kind of think Nyota and Jim are the same person, except she has breasts and a brain and Jim is perpetually stupid..." His mouth rises almost softly at one corner. "...but in an endearing way, I guess." McCoy visibly shakes himself. "Hikaru, of course, is badass and Pavel is as kind as an old grandmother. I could see myself being friends with them," he pauses, eyeing the mirror, and adds dryly, "if we don't go to prison first."

McCoy doesn't mention one person. "You don't like Spock," Chris observes. ...Interesting. Why is Leonard grinding his teeth?

"No, I don't," the young man answers shortly.

"Is there a particular reason?"

"Is it relevant to the case?"

"Of course," Chris lies.

Leonard takes a deep breath. Then another. Then a third. "I just don't."

"Jim seems to like him."

Leonard's gaze drops to the table, and his mouth returns to being a thin, unhappy line. Fortunately for McCoy, Chris doesn't have time to press the issue because there comes a solid rap on the door of the room. Chris goes to the door and opens it.

A fresh-faced deputy tells him, "Sheriff says to take a break."

Chris looks over his shoulder at McCoy. He hates to stop now because Leonard is the one who will probably say the most of the others—and clearly there are things Leonard is hiding from Pike. Watching McCoy grimace as he rolls his neck, Chris reluctantly has to agree about the break. "Give the kid some coffee," he instructs the deputy.

The naked gratitude in Leonard's eyes when Chris tells him they will stop for a few minutes is almost heartbreaking. Chris leaves the room and is about to enter its adjacent counterpart when Archer appears from the direction of his office and snaps, "Pike!"

"What's wrong?" Chris asks, hurrying to meet him. "I thought you were listening in."

"Had to step out." Archer rubs at his head, tufts of hair already sticking up to indicate this isn't the first time he has performed the act. "I hate your son."

Chris's stomach sinks. It's a phrase he has heard once too often in the past, and it usually means... "Please tell me there has been no property damage."

Jonathan's expression grows sourer. "He's got the drunk tank Christmas caroling. It's either revenge for taking McCoy or distraction. I don't know which I'd rather it be."

Chris's sigh is full of relief. "I thought he'd set something on fire. Thank god."

Jon looks vaguely alarmed. "Fire?" Then the sheriff pivots around and barks at the nearest deputy, "Did you check Kirk's pockets? I told you to check his pockets!"

"Sir, we checked them four times already."

"Well, goddamn it, do it again! Look for a lighter, or we're all going to die!" The stricken deputy takes off for the cells at a run. Archer has the weary expression of man who can't figure out how he is still standing. "Fuck. Why is this my life?"

"Aren't you overreacting, Jon?"

Jonathan closes one eye and peers at Pike through the other, asking menacingly, "Am I?"

Chris doesn't have to consider the answer. "No, I guess not. Just be grateful you didn't have to raise him."

"Yeah, small miracles. I need a drink. You want a drink?"

"We shouldn't indulge while on the job," comments Chris but he follows Archer to the office anyway, stopping just outside of it.

"Don't tell me you're still a goody two-shoes, Pike. Damn, I thought I put it in here." Jonathan slams shut one desk drawer and opens another, rattling the desk and subsequently tipping a pile of abused legal pads and sticky notes onto the floor. Finding no liquor, it seems, he stalks back to the door of his office and bellows past Chris into the open area, "Who stole my whiskey?"

Now occupying one of the desks, the balding deputy plonks an empty bottle onto a stack of files by his arm. "It was either drink or shoot somebody," he tells his boss without looking up from his paperwork, "and I don't have a wife or a girlfriend to clean the blood out of my clothes."

"Who the fuck does?" mutters Archer. His apology to Christopher is sincere. "Sorry, no whiskey... but I can send one of the boys on a run to get more."

"Please don't," Pike replies as kindly as possible. "I like you better sober than drunk."

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Archer's face.

Chris looks away, saying as a reminder to them both, "I need to finish the talk with McCoy."

The sheriff nods in agreement, and Chris walks to the interrogation room. He pauses next to the closed door when Jon calls his name.

"Small talk is okay when we have the time," his friend tells him gently, "but not tonight."

"Understood," Pike says and returns to the task at hand.

* * *

"Did I hear someone say something about whiskey?" Leonard asks, hope evident in his eyes, as Chris takes a seat across from him. The coffee cup is empty, as though McCoy had downed it in one gulp.

"We ran out."

"Damn."

"The sheriff would agree with you."

Leonard snorts. "Knew that man was a drunk."

"He isn't," Chris responds, bristling before he can think better of it.

"Have you seen the color of his nail beds?" McCoy points out. "Either he likes whiskey with every meal, or he's been beating his liver with a stick."

Chris makes a note to have a conversation with Jonathan about his drinking habits ASAP. "We aren't here to discuss him, Mr. McCoy." The authority in his tone startles the young man. It seems Jon was right to call Pike out on the way he has been handling this interview. Chris can see now that Leonard clearly feels less threatened than he did at the beginning. He could continue to lie to Pike's face and think he will be no worse off for it.

"Leonard," Pike says, clasping his hands in front of him on the table and leaning forward, "as of now Jim is on his way to prison. You might be going with him as an accessory. I need the truth. What really happened tonight?"

"Mr. Pike..."

"_Detective _Pike," Chris forcefully reminds him. "I may care for Jim but I won't allow him to break the law without consequences."

"But I can't—" Leonard swallows, looking sick. "Jim did nothing wrong."

"You're lying. What does he gain by ruining the Christmas parade?"

"It's not like that."

Pike bangs his fist on the table and sits back. "McCoy, it's a dead given by now that Kirk doesn't have an alibi and, worse yet, he impeded the arrest of Montgomery Scott, thereby letting the man escape!"

Leonard is pale, so very pale.

"I think," Chris continues in a lower voice, "you knew—all of you—what Jim was up to, if you didn't help him outright. What I want to know is _why_. Help me understand," he adds earnestly, "so I can help you."

McCoy's throat works. "Jim did what he had to... and that's all I will tell you." Then he closes his eyes.

It is an action with an intent that Pike recognizes well. Leonard is speaking the truth: he won't say another word. With a muttered curse, Pike rises from the table and signals at an end to the conversation to the man behind the mirror.

He just lost his best chance to save Jim, and Leonard did too.

* * *

Christopher is brooding over his notes in Archer's office when his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. Since he is alone, he checks the new message. It says, oddly, _we're sorry_.

Why? Why apologize now? Chris curses the fact he cannot answer or demand answers.

The phone buzzes again.

_singing b/c cupcake mean_

That... takes a minute to digest. Jim's ability to be confounding will never cease to amaze his father. What does a cupcake have to do with anything? Chris resists the urge to scratch his head. The office door opens, and he quickly pockets his phone. Archer takes a seat beside him on the old battered couch.

"They stopped that racket, thank god."

"Oh?"

"I had to threaten Kirk with time in solitary confinement if he didn't shut everyone up."

"You don't have a solitary confinement."

"I've got a closet," Jonathan says succinctly, "and I'm not afraid to use it."

Chris finds himself massaging his temples.

Archer pokes him in the shoulder. "It's okay. You're surviving."

"Barely," he mutters.

"If you're done here," the sheriff goes on to say, standing then tugging Chris to his feet, "we can pull out the next hothead and get back to business. Let me find somebody to fetch him though. I removed Cupcake—" Jonathan flushes slightly. "—er, Matthews from guard-duty in the back."

Chris grabs for Jon's arm before the man can make a hasty exit. "What did you say?"

Jon flashes an unsure smile at Pike. "Cupcake—it's the nickname your kid gave one of my men. It... stuck. Let's just say those two haven't gotten along since."

Pike lets Jonathan go and remains in the office for some time, simply contemplating the wonder that is his son, James Tiberius Kirk.


	6. V: Sulu

**V: Sulu**

_Now every friend is turn'd a foe  
In hope to get our store:_

Dryden: You charm'd me not...

* * *

The fire in Hikaru Sulu's eyes tells Chris this chat is going to be fun. The deputy-guard is barely out of the door before accusations start to fly. "_You bastard_," Sulu says furiously, "what did you do to Pavel?"

"I told him you were using him."

"_What?_"

"Isn't it true?" he responds mildly.

Shock is quickly blanketed by the return of anger. Jaw working, Sulu's dark brown eyes bore into Pike. "Where do you get off, mister?"

"Chekov makes an easy target," Chris says, brushing aside the rude comment.

"Which," the young man replies through gritted teeth, "is why I look out for him."

Sulu is so much like Jim. Chris would bet these two have become fast friends. "Letting him lie for you is _not _looking out for him."

"I told him not to—" But Hikaru quiets, no doubt remembering that Pike does in fact represent law enforcement, and law enforcement is the enemy.

"So it's not your responsibility or your _fault_—" Pike sighs like a disapproving parent, "—because you didn't tell him more than he needed to know about your plan?"

"I don't know of any plan."

"Sure, kid," Chris says, letting Sulu see his amusement. "I guess you were taking a lover's stroll with Kirk then. Want to tell me about that?" He smiles disarmingly. "You could say I have a vested interest in Jim's love life, since he is my son."

Chris might have grown an extra head, the way Sulu is staring him. "I'm not the one in love with—are you crazy or something?"

"No crazier than someone who would steal a town relic."

"I told the sheriff I haven't seen the thing since Tuesday, when I did inventory of the stock room _under my manager's orders_," emphasizes Sulu, whose already lopsided elf hat is beginning to slide down the side of his head.

"Hm," Pike murmurs, smelling a great Lie of lies, "does that mean it was already missing when you went looking for it?"

Sulu is taken aback. "How did you...?" He closes his mouth and looks Pike over with new consideration. "Did Jim tell you that?"

It's almost shameful how easy it is to manipulate these children. In Pike's experience, that either means they are very dumb or very honest at heart. He hopes the latter is true. "Last I heard, Jim would rather spend five years in prison than talk."

Sulu blushes with embarrassment, realizing what he has given away on an assumption, and crosses his arms. "I plead the fifth."

"No, you don't." Pike keeps his voice pleasant. "If you do, considering what I know now, I will have to officially arrest you for conspiracy to commit a crime."

Sulu rattles his right arm. "...I'm confused. If I'm not under arrest, then why am I handcuffed to a table?"

"Because you can be deadly whether under arrest or under suspicion—and the Sheriff is a very paranoid man."

"Can you talk about him like that?" Sulu asks, curious.

Pike imagines Jon's pithy response on the other side of the mirror. He works hard not to smile. "I tell you what—I'll trade you answer for answer."

Sulu is instantly wary. "Why?"

He eases to the corner of the desk and leans a hip against it, hands in his pants pockets. There are so many things he needs to know—primarily that of _what happened_ and _who is ultimately responsible for the theft_—but none of those things would help him gain this boy's trust. And Pike knows, without a doubt, playing bad cop to Hikaru Sulu will yield nothing—as it never yielded anything from Jim in the past.

Chris takes a mental deep breath and asks, "How well do you know James Kirk?"

"Is this another crazy question?" Some of the tension visibly lessens in Sulu despite the automatic retort.

"Sure," he agrees, keeping the conversation easy. "Can I have your answer?"

Sulu sinks slightly in his chair. "He's Scott's friend—Scotty, I mean. Jim calls him that. We never called him Scotty until Jim did." He makes an aborted motion, like a shrug. "The name fits, though."

"Jim has a talent for nicknames, and a even better talent for making them stick no matter how awful they are," Pike remarks dryly. "He calls his best friend Bones."

"Best friend?"

"McCoy."

Sulu looks thoughtful. "...Huh, is that what they are?" Then his eyes travel around the undecorated room. "My answer is I don't know him that well."

"But you trust him."

Sulu's hesitation could be a result of his natural inclination not to tell a policeman anything. But he nods eventually, albeit slowly.

"Why?"

"We agreed to a trade. One of mine for one of yours."

Pike snorts softly and folds his arms. He gives an answer he thinks Jonathan will like. "This is Sheriff Archer's jurisdiction so I abide by his decisions." Then he smirks. "But between you and me, he's a bit of a dick."

A smile ghosts across Sulu's face. "That's something Jim would say."

"Of course he would," Chris claims airily. "I _am _his father."

"Adoptive," Sulu points out, watching Pike's reaction carefully.

"Which implies a choice was involved—mine."

Sulu nods slightly. He focuses over Pike's shoulder for a brief second, at the mirror, and then leans across the table. "I trust Jim," he says in a low voice, "because he made the plan for somebody else."

Pike waits, not certain he understands what Sulu is trying to tell him.

"...For a friend," Sulu murmurs, voice barely above a whisper now. "To save him."

"Who? From what?"

The doorknob rattles and Sulu jerks back, all expression dropping from his face.

Chris repeats urgently "From what, Hikaru?" but it's too late. The door opens, admitting an elated sheriff, and the moment is lost.

"Jon," Pike growls in frustration.

"We got him!" Archer crows, grinning widely. "We ran him down on Route 9."

Pike looks to Sulu, who is quite pale and staring at his hands. Chris almost curses, drags a hand through his hair instead, and says, "Okay—okay. Is he through booking?"

"Won't be at the station for another five," replies the sheriff.

Sulu stands up, his chair falling backwards with the abrupt motion. He jerks at his restraint. A deputy slides around Archer's back, hand to the gun at his belt. Sulu looks at neither man, just at Pike. "I plead the fifth," he says, defiantly this time.

Chris can read the desperation in Hikaru's eyes easily enough.

"We're done anyway," he tells Jon, though the truth is the exact opposite. Chris had been close, so close to a real explanation. But getting angry about it is pointless.

Archer makes an impatient movement with his hand at the deputy, tacit permission to remove Sulu from the room. Then he settles that hand on Chris's shoulder. "I appreciate the work you've done here, Detective. We ought to have this wrapped up shortly." He removes his hand in order to crack his knuckles, still grinning. "I'll have a confession within the hour. You can count on that."

"Then you found the star?"

"Inside the van, like we thought."

Chris feels an odd sympathy for Montgomery Scott. "And Jim?" he asks.

"I can probably let him go on bail if you make certain he doesn't leave town in the next week or so." Archer turns away, everything about his stance radiating how pleased he is.

"Jon," Chris calls, thinking of Sulu's words, "are you sure there's not more going on here?"

"Kids can be fuckin' idiots, Chris, you know that."

Chris doesn't think Jim would be this secretive about a prank gone wrong. His son has done some stupid things, granted, but this? It cuts too close to the line. But Pike can see there isn't much he can say to change Archer's mind, not now, so he will have to wait until he has Jim.

Despite any apprehensions, Chris has to admit privately to a measure of relief that this might be over. Yet he cannot help but wonder about the identity of this mysterious person for whom Jim would risk prison. The answer will have to come from Jim, he supposes, or the mysterious person himself.

* * *

Sheriff Jonathan Archer is near-to-bursting with anticipation. Chris almost wants to tie the man to a chair leg or something in case he suddenly morphs into a demonic version of the Energizer Bunny. The only person who isn't grinning like Christmas has come hours early is the male prostitute still stuck on the bench (had they all but forgotten about him?) glaring at everyone out of his one good eye.

Archer finally seems to notice the hooker—or, that is, takes offensive to someone willing to rain on his parade. "Why hasn't he been booked?"

One deputy rubs his already red nose. "I thought Larry was doin' it."

Apparently Larry the Deputy does not like to have the finger pointed in his direction. "I'm on phone duty, you dweeb!"

"I skinned my knee chasing down a drunk housewife!"

"Boo hoo, Jenkins, cry me a river."

Jenkins uncaps his gun holster with clear intent.

"Enough!" roars the sheriff. "Fucking hell—what is this, the goddamn nursery? You—" He snarls at Jenkins. "—pull that gun out and I will shove it up your ass."

Chris turns away from the manic scene to put a hand over his face and stifle his laughter.

"And, Larry?"

"Yes, sir?" How meek Larry sounds now.

"Just book the perp already. That ugly pirate is the last thing I wanna look at every time I walk outta my office."

"...Yes, sir."

Maybe the hooker thinks he has been complimented because he does a fair impression of a pirate's lewd grin. Archer was right about the ugly though, Chris thinks. The blue tattoo across the forehead and the scar down the cheek are far more unsettling than the eye patch.

The youngest deputy bounds from the front hallway with a cry of "He's here!"

Pike is embarrassed by Archer's return cry of "YES!" What has happened to his friend? Chris knew he was always the more stable of the two, but he hadn't realized leaving the man all those years ago would result in Jonathan losing his sanity. Alas, there will be time to contemplate Archer's oddities later.

Montgomery Scott is one of those people who would not make much of an impression under other circumstances. He has, Chris determines, the kind of nondescript features that could make him invisible in a crowd.

Scott is eerily quiet as he is marched to stand before a triumphant Archer, who is saying, "Thought you could escape me, did you, boy?"

Scott looks to be caught somewhere between stupefied and lost. As Jonathan goes on about the prowess of his law enforcement team, Scott's eyes wander around the room. They take in Pike and dismiss him in the same heartbeat, continuing on to other surroundings. Chris recognizes the moment Montgomery sees something, or someone, he doesn't like. In response, Chris suddenly feels the fine hairs at the back of his neck stand up.

"Let's get this buffoon processed quickly. I want him in the interrogation room in half an hour," Jon is saying to his small group of deputies. To the newest prisoner, Jon threatens, eyes bright, "Ever seen a thumbscrew?"

The young man blinks. "Is that a tool?"

Grin faltering into a look of annoyance, Archer steps aside so the deputy escorting Scott can proceed on to the booking station. "This one had better be easy," he says to Pike and strides for his office.

Chris lingers a moment to watch Scott's odd, hunchbacked shuffle, as if his ankles are shackled like his wrists. Though the feeling in the air is suddenly queer, nothing about the scene is out of place. Thinking perhaps he is too wound up by the events of the night, Chris turns toward the sheriff's office to have a quick word with Archer about Jim's release.

That is when everything goes to shit.

There is a cry, bitten off, from Montgomery Scott's guard, who goes sprawling across the floor. The one-eyed hooker has someone's gun. Scott gives a panicked cry. What happens next is a blur.

Scott's knees hit the back of a desk, rattling pens and toppling a stapler to the floor. A shot is fired, narrowly missing the kid; the coffee pot explodes. Pike dives across the room without thought and barrels into the side of the armed man, knocking a second shot upward into a ceiling tile. Aged plaster rains down on their heads. Pike gets a hard elbow into his stomach (how the fuck did this man get loose from his handcuffs?) as he and the gunman wrestle for the weapon. There is a moment when he spies Scott out of the corner of his eye, curled in a ball on the floor as best as can be managed with hands handcuffed behind his back.

Someone shouts, a furious bellow like Jonathan's. The moment of inattention costs Chris. The prostitute—who fights too well, like he's trained—has his finger on the trigger and fires the third shot. Pain sears like a firebrand across Pike's flesh.

He makes himself fall forward, fighting an instinctual momentum, because the idea that he's been shot makes Chris utterly livid. He cracks his forehead against the other guy's then drives a fist into the vulnerable jaw. When the shooter goes down, Archer is there, his own loaded weapon tucked under the man's chin. Chris drops to his knees and pries the gun loose from the groaning man's hand.

"Fuck," Archer pants. "_Fuck._" His pupils are blown wide.

Chris puts a hand to his left arm, and it comes back bloody. He echoes Archer's profanity with feeling, only to suddenly remember Montgomery Scott.

Chris is riding too high on adrenaline to soften his whip-like tone. "Are you hurt?" he demands, crawling over to the quivering ball that is Jim's friend.

Scott opens tear-bright eyes and asks Pike, "I'm gonna die, aren't I?"

Pike looks him over, sees no wound, and replies, "No, you're not. You're okay, son."

"But I will," the boy whispers back, and closes his eyes again in resignation.


	7. VI: Pike

**VI: Pike**

_Our storm is past, and that storm's tyrannous rage,  
A stupid calm, but nothing it, doth 'suage._

Donne: The Calm

* * *

Chris and Jon relocate to Archer's office in the aftermath.

"Shit," Jon curses for the umpteenth time, looking at Pike's bloodied arm.

"It's just a scratch," Chris reassures him.

The older man is already reaching for his office phone. Chris crosses the room in two strides and rips the cord out of the back of the cradle. "No. I'm not leaving Jim."

Archer looks at him askance, for clearly Pike has taken leave of his senses. "You've been shot, you dope!"

"Not my first time," he mutters as he tentatively prods at the edges of the ripped fabric for a better look at the wound. He has been shot in the line of duty once before. The pain had been a bitch then, more like his flesh was being melted by hellfire than this unpleasant throb; given that the bullet had actually lodged in his body, the experience had ended in immediate surgery and weeks of damage control.

Chris remembers everything vividly. When he had awoken in a hospital room, having blacked out at some point during the ambulance ride, Jim had been in the chair next to his bed. At fourteen, the boy was underweight, thin enough to seem fragile no matter how many meals he ate; the chair engulfed his skinny frame. Pike saw the pale face watching him, Jim's expression unmistakably frightened. It was a look he never saw often on Jim—or wasn't allowed to see. Despite sluggish senses and the tangle of the IV in his arm, Chris had automatically reached for Jim, to let him know everything was all right. Jim hadn't turned away from the comfort. Later, he had learned, the child had eluded an entire floor of nurses and cops (who were supposedly babysitting him) and snuck in to see Chris.

That day wasn't only the first time Pike had been shot—it was also the first time Jim called him Dad.

"Of course you're getting looked at," Jon argues, bringing Pike's attention sharply back to the present. "_You're bleeding on my floor._" Archer goes to the door where an anxious-looking deputy is waiting. "Bring McCoy."

"Sir?"

"Now!" snaps the sheriff, overriding any protest from Pike. His words grow steadily testier. "You won't go to the hospital? That's fine, but somebody's going to inspect that wound. So unless you want my tender attentions..."

Chris flinches.

Archer smiles mirthlessly. "Let the kid patch you up and don't say a fucking word about it, Christopher." Someone must have pissed in Jon's coffee this morning. His temper is rarely so sour, at least from what Pike remembers.

Chris says, "McCoy's just a second-year med student," feeling that at least one of them ought to point out the obvious. "We've probably had more training in our first aid courses."

"My only first aid trick is to stick a band-aid on it," Archer replies gruffly, having turned away to dig through a drawer in his desk.

Chris is about to say _fine with me _when the door flies back on its hinges and Leonard McCoy is practically shoved into the room. He looks winded, like he was dragged at a run from his cell.

"What the—?" gasps the young man. His words die when he sees Pike—or more accurately, the blood on Pike's shirt. "Oh, shit."

"Fix him," Jon orders McCoy and unceremoniously dumps a white first aid box on the top of his desk. Leonard simply holds out his handcuffed wrists in response. Jon removes the bonds and Leonard picks up the box with one hand and drags a wooden chair over to Pike with the other. Once settled, he removes a pair of scissors from the kit and starts cutting through the fabric of Pike's shirt sleeve.

"What happened?" Leonard asks, directing the quiet question to Pike. Jon hovers nearby as though he is waiting for some kind of instruction from Leonard.

Chris stares at a spot above the sheriff's shoulder. "What always happens. Some asshole takes an opportunity to shoot at a bunch of cops."

McCoy releases a soft breath. "Jim's going to go ballistic."

"_Don't_," he warns, catching Leonard's eyes and holding them. _Don't bring up Jim. Not even now. We can't put him at risk, no matter the circumstances. _He won't say this in front of Jon, but he also knows he doesn't need to. Leonard is smart, and he cares about Jim.

There is a sudden tick in McCoy's jaw. He tells Jon, "I need a towel. Run it through hot water first."

But Jon goes only as far as the open door, once again sending the young deputy scampering away to fulfill the request.

As Leonard angles Chris's arm towards the light of a floor lamp Jon had obligingly turned on and squints at the wound, Chris murmurs, "It's just a graze." One that hurts like hell, though.

"Bleeding's sluggish but I'll put some stitches it in just in case." Leonard glances sidelong at Pike. "Do they really think you're impartial to all of this?"

Jonathan is the one who answers, before Pike can. "Officers have the law and when they don't have that, they have their own personal code. Christopher's always had the backbone to stick to his, come hell or high water. That's why every boy in blue wants to be him and why no one ever will."

To hear Jon speak so passionately takes Chris by surprise. But he can't reply with more than a shocked "thank you" because, in his heart, Chris knows he isn't the man from their youth Archer remembers. There's Jim now, and Jim is a game changer for Pike. He is capable of things he might have never have considered doing in the past.

The wet towel is useful to clean up the mess of blood trickling down Pike's arm, and after Leonard douses the wound with alcohol—which Pike grits his teeth through—and makes a neat row of five stitches in his flesh, Leonard strips open a wide pad of gauze and begins to bind the arm. He tells Pike to go to a hospital or a doctor as soon as possible for a legitimate check-up and a prescription of antibiotics. "The wound's not life-threatening, obviously," McCoy explains, "but an infection can be."

Jon has settled into glaring at Christopher from over McCoy's shoulder. Chris sighs, and imagines how pinched his expression must be. "I'll have it looked at, I promise—once," he stipulates, "we're done here."

Leonard sits back, voice tight. "Do you know how crazy you are?"

Pike is too tired to laugh. "Sorry, Leonard, that's just the way things are."

McCoy's nostrils flare slightly. "Adoption, my ass. Jim _learned his idiocy _from you."

"What?"

"Well, I've had enough!" hisses Leonard from between his teeth. He stands up and rounds on Jon. "Jim didn't steal the stupid star. I did."

"McCoy!" Pike barks out, alarmed. Ignoring the protest of his arm, he sits up straight and tries to reach for Leonard's arm.

"Is that so?" the sheriff asks, eyes narrowed in consideration at McCoy.

"Yes" comes the flat reply. "So quit being a dick and let the others go, _Sheriff_. It's Christmas, for god's sake." In an undertone, as though Chris won't hear him, Leonard adds, "And get Mr. Pike to a hospital."

"Shut up," Chris snaps at Jim's idiot of a friend, bracing one hand on the chair for leverage. Stupid wobbly legs. He may not be a spring chicken but there is no way he is too weak to stand on his own. Chris shrugs off Jon's restraining hand on his shoulder and straightens to his full height. "This investigation isn't done," he tells the room at large. One laser glare at Leonard is enough to subdue the young man into momentary silence. "Jon, get Leonard out of here, then give me five minutes."

Leonard braces himself for a fight.

"You heard the man," Jon remarks mildly to the wide-eyed deputy lingering in the doorway.

Mouth gaping, Jim's best friend argues, "But I said I did it!"

Archer snorts. "A confession only does me half-good, kid, unless you're packing the stolen item in question under your shirt or down your pants."

Chris is startled, and watches the sheriff, wondering at the kind of game he is playing. Then he realizes it's a test to see how much Leonard really knows.

"But—" Leonard continues to protest, though he does not fight the deputy guiding him from the office.

A few moments later, Jon lifts his fingers to his mouth and whistles sharply. "Hey!" he calls to his deputy down the hallway and lifts the forgotten handcuffs for all to see.

The deputy comes back for the handcuffs, flushed and apologetic. Leonard stands forlornly by himself in the meantime, shoulders hunched and glaring at the floor. The fact that he isn't raving mad or looking to cause a scene does not deter the curious on-looking from the other inhabitants of the station.

"Consider my thanks," Jonathan calls to the sulking McCoy, "a trip to the restroom to wash your hands and pee." Then Jon shuts the office door with a hearty slam and Chris can see no more of Leonard. "He isn't the culprit."

"I know."

"What do you need?" his friend asks, watching Chris's slow movements toward his discarded jacket across the room.

"Those five minutes," Chris answers grimly, holding his arm to keep from jostling it overly much. "I need to think, Jon."

Archer gives a short nod and leaves without another word. Chris sinks into the couch to contemplate his aches and pains. He has only rested his eyes for a few minutes when a faint buzzing fills the room. It takes a moment for him to pinpoint where the sound is coming from, which is the pocket of the jacket. Instantly he knows what is buzzing and why. Chris ignores the noise.

The cell phone vibrates again. It isn't likely McCoy can keep a secret from Jim to save his life and is even less likely Leonard would consider 'your dad got shot' a secret worth keeping. The cell phone, however impossible, seems to rattle with a little more ferocity with each missed summons. It's going off for the fifth time when Archer gives the doorframe of the office a token tap and comes back in.

Jon eyes the cell phone, which in the interim had migrated from the jacket to Pike's hand. "You gonna answer that?"

Chris lies, "Just my crazy old aunt. She probably wants to know what time Jim and I are arriving for our family dinner."

He receives a strange look from Jon, but the man doesn't question him further. Instead Archer retrieves a manila folder from his desk, warning Pike as he leaves again, "Don't go anywhere."

Going somewhere would require moving. Pike isn't moving until he has had half a bottle of ibuprofen. He finally, reluctant but driven by need, turns on the screen of the cell phone. His fingers seem to move of their own accord, pulling up one unread text after another.

_r u ok_

_saw bld_

_r u ok?_

_ans_

The last text is one word, the kind of word to make Pike feel very guilty:

_PLEASE_

With his thumb he painstakingly punches out the letters _S-T-O-P_ and presses the send button. This time the text doesn't bounce back undelivered.

Ten minutes later, as Pike is seriously contemplating the pattern of the mold stain on the spackled ceiling above his head, Jonathan returns. Chris feels bad about the strain around Jon's eyes and wordlessly accepts a proffered uniform shirt.

"Bathroom's down the hall," Jon informs him, leaning heavily against his desk. "Don't let the newbies see you. Some of 'em still puke at the sight of blood."

"There was a time when we were just as green." Chris lumbers toward the door, suppressing a wince as he accidentally puts pressure on his bandaged arm. Injured nerves sing sweetly of pain. It would be nice if the aspirin he had discovered buried in the first aid kit would take effect soon, he thinks.

Archer looses a snort of genuine amusement. "Speak for yourself. I was raised on whiskey instead of breast-milk, and my Pap had me—"

"—skinning rabbits by the age of three and shooting cougars by five," Chris finishes for him, unable to stop his grin. "I haven't forgotten, and clearly you haven't stopped bullshitting."

Surprisingly, Jon relaxes. "Yeah, okay. Go change."

In a ridiculous urge that dates back to his carefree twenties, Chris salutes Jon with his middle finger. He tries to save face by saying quickly, "Get your boys settled, Archer. When I come back, I want to see Nyota Uhura."

Archer's retaliation is a rude gesture of his own. "I'd ask if you're up for that, but I doubt you'd be even if you weren't shot full of holes."

There are no holes, bullet-made or otherwise unnatural to Chris's body. Jonathan is a complete idiot. "Fuck you."

"Oops, did I say that out loud?" Jon smiles faintly.

The first part of the sheriff's prior statement is what has Chris pausing on the threshold of the office. "Is there something I should know about Uhura?"

Jon gives him a pitying look, one that makes Pike nervous all of a sudden, and moves to the chair behind his desk, not answering. Chris is forced to leave on that note of mystery because he can feel unnerving stares at the back of his head, that of Archer's deputies, who seem to expect him to expire at any second. So Chris makes a hasty retreat to the men's bathroom to change his shirt.

Once he is safe from prying eyes, he pulls out his cell phone and inspects his inbox. No other messages from Jim. That's just as well, Pike eventually decides as he carefully peels away his ruined clothing. One dumb mistake almost cost several lives today. None of them can afford another dumb mistake, least of all by pushing Kirk into one.

Chris can take bullets, and if it means his son stays safe, he will. But Jim has a tendency put himself into dangerous positions when Chris isn't around and for less ridiculous reasons than somebody making him mad. So radio silence is the best option they have, until the threat in the station is neutralized or eliminated.

For Pike believes with every ounce of his being and his significantly honed detective skills that the gunman was not a random act of violence. Someone was meant to die earlier today, on purpose, and that means someone else had a reason to want the intended victim dead.

Hands visibly steady despite that he might be shaking apart on the inside, Chris finishes washing the blood from his skin. Part of the reason, he would bet, is tucked away in the back building, sending out frantic texts. And that, above all else, is what terrifies Chris to his very core.


	8. VII: Uhura

**VII: Uhura**

_When the sun sets, shadows, that showed at noon  
But small, appear most long and terrible._

Nathaniel Lee: Oedipus

* * *

Through the mirror, Pike and Archer watch Nyota Uhura take a seat at the table in the interrogation room. The young woman is not just lovely but beautiful in the kind of way that entices men to do stupid things. Her hair is long and dark and sleek, pulled into a tight ponytail that shouldn't be so tidy hours after an arrest. Even her lipstick is a vibrant cranberry red, like it was recently applied, matching perfectly to the color of her Santa's Village outfit. Chris gives Uhura an once-over, from lush mouth to low-cut uniform top all the way down the seemingly endless line of her bare legs, and wonders how long it took Jim to hit on her the first time they met. Five seconds? Ten? And she would have slapped him down, Chris bets, because the Kirkian charm never works so well on women who ooze self-confidence and supreme satisfaction like this one does.

After the deputy-guard is gone, Nyota Uhura gives the room one cursory glance before she adopts a bored expression and begins to pick at her manicured nails.

"We had to take her out of the women's holding," the sheriff whispers, "and put her in with the men."

"Is that wise?" Chris asks quietly.

Jonathan looks pained. "Trust me, where she is is safer for everybody involved."

Uhura lifts her eyes to the mirror, her gaze landing directly on the men as though she can see them standing there, talking about her. Her hands have stilled momentarily. Next to Chris, Jon shudders.

"Jon?"

"Women," he says bleakly, "are vicious creatures, Christopher. Better to stay the hell away from them."

"What?" Chris realizes he is whispering and clears his throat, repeating in a normal voice, "What?" Really, they're being foolish. The woman can't hear them.

In the other room, Uhura cocks her head. "Are you Chatty Cathies coming in here or not?"

Jonathan jumps in surprise and backs away from the mirror. Refusing to look anywhere but at his boots, he mutters in Pike's direction, "Good luck." Then, in the same breath, "Anything particular you want on your tombstone?"

Is that a joke? His friend's face implies the question is entirely serious, and he will personally see to it that Pike gets a favorable epitaph. Fighting a sigh, Chris slips his hands into his pockets, grateful the material of his borrowed jacket is sturdy enough to hide the outline of the bandage around his arm. "Just make certain you take notes, Sheriff."

Jonathan nods mutely and returns to watching Uhura like he knows what is about to happen is a train wreck and he is still incapable of looking away. Chris decides he won't let another man's fear get the best of him. Smoothing his expression into an aloof mask, he tugs on the doorknob and leaves the hideaway room, certain his years of experience in dealing with hardened criminals will not fail him.

It could be, he admits much later, that he is occasionally wrong. Even the hardened criminals would eventually run screaming (or curl up into a tiny ball if their shackles prevent escape) once they went toe-to-toe with Nyota Uhura.

* * *

Chris takes one slow, deep breath after another. _In-out. In-out._

"That isn't going to help," Nyota tells him sagely.

Somehow, somewhere, she acquired a nail buffer. Chris has never been frightened of a nail buffer until now. He doesn't dare take it away from her.

"We'll start over from the beginning," he says and winces. "At six o'clock you were fix—um, brushing your hair for the party when you realized..."

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Nyota stops inspecting her nails and looks at him. "Why do we have to go over this again?"

_To torture me? _"I need to be certain I understand the facts."

Her eyes roll ceiling-ward. "Here they are then, in order of priority: Fact 1, you're less of a dipshit cop than your sheriff buddy with the stupid hat but I'm still not telling you anything; Fact 2, I was finishing the _second coat of paint on my toenails _at six, and at six-oh-five I started combing my hair—"

Chris pillows his head on his arms and lets her go on. No point in stopping her now.

"—Fact 3, your son is an ignoramus and if he _ever_ puts his hands on my chest again, _I will castrate him with a spoon_—"

Pike's shoulders shake. He doesn't lift his head because he isn't ready to reveal that he is crying, not laughing.

"—and finally Fact 4." Uhura takes a long pause, waiting on Chris to wipe his eyes and sit up. "Whatever you think happened is wrong."

"You don't know what I'm thinking."

"You're male. You can't be thinking much, so I don't have to guess too hard."

"Please don't insult me."

She cocks her head. "Then don't arrest me on charges you can't even prove and waste my time."

"This is a waste of _my_ time," he snaps, suddenly irritated. "Why the hell are all of you kids so stubborn? We want to sort out this mess and _help you_, for god's sake!"

"Who's 'we'?" Uhura asks, sounding curious.

He rubs at the bridge of his nose and corrects, "I want to help you."

"You want to help your son. What do you care about the rest of us?"

It's a legitimate concern on her part. Pike is worried mostly about Jim. But knowing Jim cares about these people does make a difference with Chris and how he approaches this case—mainly because Jim isn't liable to leave unless _everyone _does. Kirk is loyal to a fault, which Chris supposes is natural given that Jim trusts almost no one and so those he does become close to have proven worthy of his trust in some fashion or another.

It makes him wonder, not for the first time, how loyal Jim is to him. If, by now, he has earned a proper place in the boy's heart. Sometimes Chris thinks so; at other times, he simply expects Jim to end all contact with him. Kirk is legally an adult. He doesn't need Pike anymore for food or clothes or a roof over his head. And no matter how often Chris convinces himself it won't make a difference to Jim, the simple fact is they aren't related by blood. To Chris, two people who choose to be family will always be strongly tied together, but he knows not everyone feels the way he does.

Chris sets aside those thoughts because now it isn't the time or place to be worrying about where he fits into Jim's life besides, obviously, as a reliable source of bail money.

"I have no desire to put innocent people in prison," Pike tells her. "But at this point, Uhura, you haven't given me much to go on." He drums a rhythm on the table with his fingers. "I know the party was a cover."

She doesn't flinch or look away but asks him bluntly, "Why do you believe that?"

He smiles slightly. "It sounds like something my son would think up."

A thoughtful silence stretches between them. Nyota's dark eyes burn with intelligence as she thinks about what she wants to say next, and Pike muses with deep regret that she is wasting her talents on retail work. Why isn't this woman in college—or at a police academy somewhere? He'll mention the idea to her if they make it out of this mess unscathed.

"Hypothetically speaking," Nyota begins, "if the party was a cover, what do you think would be the motive behind it—other than stealing some shitty old town relic? Which, by the way, only morons would do."

Oh, yes. She would definitely make a great detective some day.

"Jim is a moron on occasion," Chris admits, making Uhura laugh, "but if we're talking motive, when it comes to Kirk..." He doesn't even need Sulu's hint to know the right answer. "I would have to guess people."

Jim doesn't give a damn about politics—governmental, corporate or religious—unless it's directly related to a person he knows. It comes down to the basic fact that if Jim sees someone in trouble, he has a tendency to try to help. Pike was very surprised to learn that Jim had a hero-complex at such a young age. Most children are too scared to jump into a serious fight. Jim would without a moment's consideration for himself. One time he tried to run into a burning building after a firefighter, and Pike had to lock him in the back of a squad car. Apparently the boy had seen a puppy in one of the windows and thought nobody would save it. Suffice to say, Pike had a talk with every firefighter coming in and out of that building about the puppy, much to their chief's growing rage. The dog did get saved though, and Jim's face, pressed against the car window, was priceless when a sooty young man handed over the wriggling bundle to an EMT. Jim named the puppy Sam, and they kept it for about one week before the owner showed up to claim Sam with a teary-eyed child in tow. Jim had been rather gracious about the whole thing, except that he refused to leave his room for an entire weekend and Pike had to listen to the child's muffled crying.

Chris thinks he made a lot of mistakes in those days. It was slightly traumatizing to go from being a bachelor to the father of a preteen in a matter of days, and it took a long time for him to figure out what he should be doing and, of those things, what actually worked when it came to Jim.

Nyota draws his attention from the past by leaning forward, her mouth curved as she says, "That's a universal motive, Detective—but a good guess."

His heart leaps in his chest. "Then who is Jim protecting?"

"You're asking the wrong questions."

"What are the right questions?"

"Why would any of us need protection, and why would it involve a stupid star?"

But will she provide Pike with the answers? He knows he has to tread very carefully now. "Usually a scenario involving those questions would be nefarious in nature."

She nods, suddenly serious, and agrees, "Very nefarious."

His mouth feels dry. Jim and nefarious are two words Chris never wants to put together in a sentence. "Can you tell me about... this scenario?"

Uhura sits back and considers him. "I don't think I can."

"Why not?"

"Because you may want to turn us loose, but the moment you do things fall apart for _everyone_."

"I don't understand." But he does. Oh, he does.

Nyota gives him a hint of smile and tells the mirror behind him, "I'm done here. Take me back." To Pike, she lowers her voice so the words won't carry well through the microphones hidden around the room. "I will give you one last thing to think about, Detective." She allows for a momentary pause. "Your son is the only one of us who used his phone call—and he called _you_." She gives Pike a slow once-over. "I hope you're as smart as Kirk seems to think you are."

* * *

Jonathan is in a strange mood when Chris returns to the room on the other side of the mirror.

"You let her lead you around by the dick," the sheriff accuses, pacing along the back wall of the room.

"I had to," Chris says, shutting the door quietly. "She would have sent me on a wild goose chase otherwise just to prove she wasn't intimidated. I've dealt with ones like her before, Jon. Let them hold the reigns for a while, and you have a better chance of getting what you want from them."

"I still don't—" But Archer doesn't finish what he wants to say. Instead he stops pacing and studies Chris with an inscrutable gaze.

"What else?" Pike asks patiently, leaning against the closed door. The metal is cold enough to be felt through the layers of his clothes.

"This should be over. Why isn't it over?"

Chris puts a hand to his injured arm as an answer.

Jonathan's eyes darken. "That bastard won't see the light of day ever again. I swear it, Chris."

Pike just shakes his head, disappointed that his friend doesn't understand. But Jon will, soon enough. First though, there is the matter of an idiot Pike needs to talk some sense into. "I want to see McCoy again," he tells the sheriff.

Jon sighs through his nose but doesn't argue against the request, only reminding Pike, "We're almost out of time."

"Yeah," agrees Chris, "we almost are."

Christmas Day is but a few short hours away.


	9. VIII: McCoy

**VIII: McCoy**

_We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;  
How restlessly they speed and gleam and quiver,  
Streaking the darkness radiantly! yet soon  
Night closes round, and they are lost forever:—_

Shelley: Mutability

* * *

"Leonard," Christopher says, lowering his voice even though he is standing next to McCoy's chair, "_think _for a minute. This isn't some juvenile misdemeanor I can sweep under the rug or that your parents will settle with money."

"I know that, sir," the young man responds, equally quiet. He won't look Pike in the eyes. Which is very bad news.

"Then why the hell do you want to be prosecuted for a crime you didn't commit!" Chris snaps at him, exasperated.

Leonard finally lifts his head, having endured Pike's rant since his arrival some good ten minutes ago. Defensive anger heats his voice. "I said _I confess_. Are you deaf," he challenges to the mirror over Pike's shoulder, "or just damned stupid? Or maybe you just waitin' for a confession in blood?"

Pike closes his eyes and puts a hand to his temple, his headache having tripled since the shooting. "Jim wouldn't want you to do this," he says as a last resort.

"Yeah, well," McCoy replies, standing up to indicate the end of his patience with their argument, "I think we can both agree Jim never appreciates the easy solutions in life." He tugs uselessly at the handcuff anchoring his arm to the table.

_Apparently neither do you. _Pike bites back the retort. But then, by that measuring stick, they all fall short. Anybody who purposefully wants Jim in his or her life is guilty of the same fault, because Jim has always been anything but easy to handle, let alone love.

"Sit down," he commands.

Leonard's expression turns mutinous.

"SIT DOWN!" Chris bellows.

The young man drops back into his seat like his legs suddenly are weak.

The walls barely muffle the slam of a neighboring door and within the next second or so, Archer is striding into the room, muttering under his breath. He grabs the back of McCoy's chair and drags Leonard around until they are almost nose-to-nose. "Listen up, sourpatch," Jonathan growls, "if you don't fucking get your head out of your ass, I will pull it the fuck out. And it's gonna hurt like hell!"

Leonard looks at Jon funny before craning his neck back so he can see Pike. "What the heck is this? Aren't you supposed to be grateful?"

"_Grateful?_" rumbles Pike. "Why should we be grateful? Because you want us to ruin an innocent man's life? The law, McCoy, is to protect the innocent, not harm them."

Archer straightens up, releasing his hold on Leonard's chair. "Unless, of course, you think we're that damn soulless."

"I don't," Leonard says, looking unhappy. "It's not about... I'm tired of, of worrying that he might—_damn it_." Leonard looks imploringly at Pike. "Haven't you ever wanted to protect someone?"

"Yes. The day I decided to petition the state for custody of Jim." Chris suddenly feels older than forty-four. He crouches next to Leonard's chair. "I understand, Leonard. You know I do. But this isn't the right way to help my son. He'd be devastated if he lost you, especially like this. He told me once that meeting you was the best part about moving out to be his own."

McCoy's eyes are suspiciously wet.

"Do you really want to hurt Jim?" Chris asks gently, knowing he has won even before he finishes speaking.

"No, sir," murmurs the dark-haired young man.

Pike pats Leonard's shoulder in sympathy. "You are a very good friend to my son, McCoy."

Strangely, Leonard's face crumples with guilt, as if Pike had accused him of the exact opposite.

"Aw, shit," mutters Archer, searching his pockets. "You're not going to cry, are you?" He holds out a wadded-up Kleenex.

"Don't give it to him if it's been used!" Chris admonishes, caught between disgust and amusement.

"It's all I've got!"

"No, it's okay," Leonard says, wiping at his face with his free hand and doing his best to regain control of himself. When Archer adamantly sticks the Kleenex under Leonard's nose, Leonard rears back with a strangled sound. "No, really! Throw that away!"

Archer tucks the Kleenex back in his pocket. "Germs," he says, solemn-faced, to both of them.

"There is something very wrong with you," Leonard mutters, which is precisely what Pike is thinking.

"I'm the Sheriff," Jonathan points out, like that explains it all.

Maybe in Jon's world it does. Chris really doesn't want to know, or have Jon's insanity confirmed, so he doesn't ask questions. Instead he takes the man's arm and steers him to a corner for a quick, semi-private chat.

"Are you satisfied now?" Jon asks him in a soft voice.

"It would gone faster if I could have throttled him."

The corners of Jonathan's mouth lift slightly. "You still can. I turned off the cameras—and I'm not telling."

"Who the hell was crazy enough to vote you into a position of power?" Chris demands, partly serious.

"I have my ways," Archer replies mysteriously.

"You mean you've pulled the wool over everyone's eyes," retorts Pike.

Leonard rattles his handcuffs, clearly disturbed by the way they are whispering together.

Jonathan sticks a thumb in McCoy's direction as if to say _so what do we do with that idiot?_

Chris looks to Leonard, and Archer's gaze follows suit. "We keep him in here for a while."

Archer grimaces. "Kirk will explode."

"You said you wanted results, Archer. I'm going to get them for you."

"Okay but you can explain to the Town Council why my men will be scraping bits of exploded Kirk off the wall."

"...I did not need that image in my head, thank you, Jon. Just stay quiet, please, and go stand outside the door. Look menacing or something."

"That's my forte," Archer declares, shooting a toothy shark's grin at McCoy as he ambles to the other side of the room then out the door.

Leonard looks wary as Pike takes a seat at the table. "Have you forgotten I'm not going to talk?"

"Oh, I haven't," Pike assures him. "But I do have questions... as a father."

Leonard sits back in his chair, eyebrows moving towards his hairline. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything Jim doesn't tell me in our weekly chats."

"Hm. Do you know he eats twinkies for breakfast?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It's a bad habit of his I tried break when he was in his teens. I guess my lectures on the proper dietary health of young men failed to make a lasting impression."

Leonard's eyes gleam with suppressed humor. "He eats them for dinner, too, sometimes. And dips them in coca-cola."

Chris closes his eyes.

"But I _am _going to break that habit," Leonard goes to say with surprising determination.

"How?"

"I have a new friend, Christine, who works at a dentist's office. Trust me. Jim will run screaming from sugar for the rest of his life."

Chris bursts out laughing.

* * *

There comes a quiet rapping on the door just before it opens and a deputy pokes his head into the interrogation room. Pike, professional mask readily in place, looks non-plussed at the interruption. McCoy keeps his head bowed, which is just as well since he is still in throes of laughter over one of Jim's childhood stories. The deputy looks alarmed at McCoy's choked noises, undoubtedly mistaking them for sobs, and views Chris with new trepidation.

"Detective Pike, you are needed in the Sheriff's office."

Leonard drops his forehead to the table, neck bent painfully almost in half, and shakes harder.

Chris rises and goes to the door, letting his silence become truly intimidating. Eyes wide, the deputy steps aside to let him pass, though he ventures to stop Pike in the hall with a nervous "S-Sir?"

Chris turns, wordlessly raising an eyebrow.

"Um, what should I do about him?" He glances at the closed door of the interrogation room with a disturbed expression.

"Leave him," Chris orders. "I'm not done with him yet."

The sympathy in the deputy's face is clearly not for Pike. Chris turns away. Otherwise the deputy will interpret his smiling as far more sinister than it is.

* * *

Archer has a phone receiver cradled between neck and shoulder when Chris gives the office door a perfunctory knock and enters the room.

"Yes, sir," Jon is saying to the person on the other end of the line. "Yep." He rolls his eyes as Chris takes a seat in front of the desk, and he reaches over to punch the speaker button.

A man's voice fills the room, roiling with temper: "_...news cameras go live at seven. If that blasted thing isn't down here by six, I will have your head on a fucking platter, Sheriff! It isn't too late to replace you before the new term!_"

"The mayor?" Chris mouths.

Jonathan smiles wryly and drawls to the jackass on the phone, "Understood, Mr. Mayor. I've got in under lock and key, and I will deliver it personally to your doorstep in the morning."

"_You'd better._" The line goes dead.

Jonathan drops his head against the back of his chair and sighs loudly. "One of these days I'm going to give that son of a bitch a piece of my mind."

"I hope you voted for the other guy."

The man grimaces. "The other guy seemed like he would be worse. Creepy stalker stare. At least this moron I know I can back into a corner if I have to."

Chris doesn't envy Jon his position at all. "This is a perfect example of why I intend to retire as a detective. Politics give me a headache."

"But you had the chance, didn't you?" asks his friend, looking at him sharply. "When that old Chief of yours threw in the towel..."

"He'd been on the force almost forty years, Jon. He didn't throw anything in—he retired to a beach in Florida so he could be near his grandkids."

"I'll never quit," Jonathan mutters. "I'll die at this desk."

Chris frowns. "Don't say that."

"Why not? What you see—" Jon waves at hand at their surroundings. "—is my life, Christopher." His smile seems oddly bitter.

Chris doesn't know how to respond to that. Thinks he shouldn't. "So did you drag me in here just to listen to your mayor in all his asshole glory?"

Archer barks out a laugh. "I wish you'd said that while he was still on the phone! Alas, no. I want your opinion on something." He abandons his chair and strides to a door cattycorner to them and unlocks it with a key. It's a closet, Chris realizes as Jon pulls on a cord to engage an overhead light bulb. Jon grabs something bulky and tugs it from the closet with a muttered curse, tossing the blanket off of it for Pike to see.

Chris knows what the object is without being told. He says, incredulous, "You hid the star _in your office closet?_"

Jon grunts, "It's the safest place in this building."

Chris is tempted to laugh. He settles for a grim chuckle. "I won't ask. But why are you showing it to me?"

Jonathan stares down at the star propped against his leg and scratches his head. "Does it look odd to you?"

"How would I know? I've never seen it before."

Jon pokes at it. A piece of tinsel falls off.

Chris slaps at his hand with a sharp, remonstrative "Don't break it, you idiot!" and gently lifts the Christmas star from the floor into his chair despite the protest of the muscles in his back and injured arm. Damn, the thing is heavier than it looks.

"Hold on!" Jon says suddenly and scoots behind his desk, typing furiously at a keyboard. "The internet god knows everything... Voila!" He turns his computer screen around.

Pike peers at a large photograph of last year's Christmas parade. The rotund, grey-haired little man standing beneath an enormous Christmas tree must be the mayor, has to be the mayor since the red ribbon cutting diagonally across his chest states that title in bold block letters. Jonathan points at the top of the Christmas tree.

"I can't see that," Chris complains. And he didn't remember to pick up his glasses this morning before he left the house. "Can you make it bigger?"

"How do I do that?"

"I think if you click on it, a magnifying glass will show up."

It doesn't work. They spend the next two minutes futilely searching for a magnifying glass until Pike steals the computer mouse from a frustrated Jon and figures out they can use the Zoom option under View on the browser window. "Usually Jim talks me through this computer stuff. I'm not very good at it," Chris confesses.

Jon snorts. "Isn't it funny how that works, considering PDs were using electronic databases long before personal computers were popular?"

"I guess it's our advanced age."

"Speak for yourself."

"You're older than I am, Jon," Chris counters, amused.

"Whatever. So what do you think?"

They compare the star on the computer screen, though it's still tiny enough that Pike has to squint, to the one in the chair. Chris shrugs. "It's the same."

Archer frowns, looking dissatisfied.

"Jon?"

Archer huffs out a breath, shutting down the website and turning away from the computer. "Yeah, yeah. Don't know what I was thinking. Are you done trading stories with that McCoy kid?"

"Give me ten more minutes. He knows about that time Jim drunk-dialed me last month asking for a block of cheese, I'm certain of it."

Jon gives him a funny look. "Is that a story you'd really want to hear?"

Chris's mouth curves into a wicked smile. "For blackmail purposes, yes it is."

"...I see. I guess being a parent has its advantages."

"Only once the children are grown." Chris leaves Jon snickering while the man drags the star back to the office closet for safe-keeping.

Chris returns to find Leonard composed and idly picking at a loose thread of his shirt sleeve. Closing the door softly, he asks the young man, "What's wrong?"

"Maybe you should let me go back now." Leonard looks at Pike. It's clear he has been biting his bottom lip.

"Jim is fine. Ten more minutes of a little worrying won't hurt him," Chris tells McCoy.

Leonard doesn't seem entirely convinced but he nods his acquiesence anyway, and they pick up their conversation where they had left it.

* * *

All good things must come to an end. That is the way of the world.

Christopher stares at the table for a long time after Leonard is gone. In the periphery of his vision, the sheriff waits silently by the propped open door. Already a sense of foreboding has returned, driving away the light-heartedness he had experienced while talking with McCoy. Chris is troubled now, more so than when he first arrived. Perhaps the feeling stems from what he knows he must do.

Giving in to a soft sigh, he glances at Jon and says, "I want to talk to my son."

"Why?"

It's a simple question, and a loaded one. "I don't know who the real culprit is," Chris admits. "I've got half a picture and a handful of suspicions. But I do know we will never gain more than what we have now unless we convince Jim to talk." His pulse thundering under his skin, Chris turns fully toward his friend, seeking some response.

Jonathan's expression is, inexplicably, sad. "Can you break him?"

"If I have to."

"Will you?"

He offers the truth. "I don't know."

"If I allow you to talk to Kirk and you can't do what's necessary, I will." _Even if you hate me for it_, Jon is trying to tell him.

"I understand." _I won't hate you, Jon._

The man nods. He motions for Pike to follow him. "Let's go get him, then."

Chris does his best to hide the trembling of his hands as they walk to the second building. He is grateful to have Jon beside him, and he realizes with a start it doesn't seem like they have been parted for years.

He can't think about that now. From the very beginning he knew they would have to face this moment, and as much as Chris wants to see his son, he also dreads it. Jim has to give them a lead, a reason for this madness, and Pike has to force him to do it. Aware of how he plans to accomplish that task, Pike hates himself already. He is fairly certain Jim will hate him in the end, too.

He hears his son before he sees him, a low murmuring then a laugh. Pike slows his pace, allowing Archer to approach the cell first. He keeps to the side, just out of sight.

"All right, boys—erm, and lady—" cries Archer like he's shouting through a bullhorn, "—wakey, wakey!"

Groans fill the air. Someone mutters, "Fuck, he's back."

"Hello there, Sheriff of Nottingham!" Jim responds, and Pike has to smile at Jim's jovial tone.

"If I'm the Sheriff of Nottingham, you must think you're Robin Hood. That's good, 'cause you'll be the one I'm wanting to hang. Let's go, Kirk. Time to face the gallows."

For a moment there is dead silence then, like someone flips on a light switch, the protests begin, rising quickly in pitch and demand—though nothing comes from Jim himself. The guard in front of the cell bangs his fist against the bars, ordering, "Quiet down!" Archer motions at his deputy to unlock the cell door.

"Against the back wall," Jonathan orders his prisoners congenially. "That's right, even you, Mr. McCoy. No, don't give me that face. I won't shoot you, but I will taser you until you're cross-eyed and drooling." So this is why Jon was muttering at one point during the evening about there being a veritable zoo in his station.

"It's all right, Bones," Pike hears. "It's only fair I get my turn." He doesn't need to see Jim to picture his bravado.

Pike steps back as the deputy goes into the cell and comes out again, Jim in hand. Jim is watching Archer, a flat smile playing about his mouth. "What took you so long, old man?"

Archer stays quiet.

"_Jim_," Pike calls, voice rough.

Kirk's smile dies. He turns, and their eyes meet. "Dad?"

Pike says nothing, can say nothing here, and nods to Archer, who grabs Jim's arm in response. Then Chris spins around and heads to the exit at the end of the cell block. He lets the sound of Jim's footsteps comfort him that, at least for the moment, Jim is close enough to be protected.

But who is going to protect Jim from him?


	10. IX: Kirk

**IX: Kirk**

_Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,  
Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright._

Shelley: Adonais

* * *

Pike thinks he is prepared to do this with his son. He isn't. Not when the bright lighting enhances every terrible mark upon Jim's face.

It's only because of his iron will—and Archer's subtle shift of body to block any irrational action Pike might take—that Chris does not tear his son loose from the deputy's hands and hit someone for the way Jim looks.

And the kid does look bad. Oh, Pike knows that things between cops and criminals can get rough; he's been in a fistfight more often than he cares to count. But police brutality is not something Pike can tolerate. A badge is not a right to abuse the weak.

Jim cracks an arrogant smile at them all as he is summarily shoved into one of the table's chairs, having regained his bravado some time between seeing Pike and the walk to the interrogation room. That smile falters when Jim's eyes land on Pike's arm. Almost unconsciously, Chris lifts a hand to feel for the bandage beneath his clothes. Catching himself in the act, he drops his hand back to his side. Yet Chris is unable to keep the father in him at bay and ends up asking roughly, "His face—has it been seen to?"

Jonathan—_no, Sheriff Archer_, corrects Christopher mentally—replies in a rather too casual tone, "We let his doctor friend look him over."

Pike grinds his back teeth and pulls the chair opposite of Jim out from beneath the table. He seats himself and without looking at the other men in the room and tells them, "You can go." The young deputy begins to creep toward the door but Archer does not move. Chris gives Jonathan the full brunt of his _this-is-business-so-do-as-I-say _stare and re-emphasizes word by word, "You can go."

Once again, his longtime friend weighs something about him, comes to an unknown decision and, however reluctantly, concedes ground to Pike. "I won't be far," Archer reminds him, like Chris is a fool twice over, and leaves. The deputy looks relieved as he hurries from the room on his superior's heels.

Pike focuses on the young man across from him. For a long minute, they watch each other in silence, taking measure of what they see. Chris wants badly to make certain that Jim is all right because the sight of Jim is proving to be more worrying than reassuring. Jim's left eye isn't quite swollen shut but it is bruised spectacularly, and there is a red mark along his jaw that hasn't yet darkened. Chris knows he has seen Jim in worse condition (he'll never forget the boy's disastrous prom night, _ever_) but a parent hates to see evidence that someone has done harm to his child.

This is an opportunity Archer won't give him again, not without a fight, so Chris can't waste time by interrogating the boy about his injuries. He plants his elbows on the table and leans forward, steepling his fingers. Because this is Jim, who once as a child nearly forced Pike's boss into early retirement by aggravating the poor man's heart condition, Chris forgoes the civilities and the verbal dance. He asks bluntly, "Who is trying to kill Montgomery Scott?"

Jim's eyes widen a fraction, meaning he hadn't been expecting Pike to cut to the heart of the matter—or, perhaps, to even know what the heart of the matter is. Which is Jim's mistake, Pike thinks to himself. Jim has yet to learn that, if anything, he has unknowingly helped Chris hone his detective skills over the years by falling into disaster after disaster.

Before Jim can answer the question, however, the room's heavy metal door is punched open with great force and Archer swoops back in, livid. "What the fuck is—Chris, what the fuck!"

Chris ignores the sheriff's return and presses his son, "_Who?_"

Jim straightens in his seat and Pike has the sudden hope that the boy will answer honestly rather than skirt the question altogether, but in the next moment the spell is broken as Jon grabs the lapels of Pike's jacket and tries to drag him bodily out of his chair.

"Let him go!"

Jim is diving across the table for Jonathan in an instant, never mind that his handcuffed limb limits his range or that Pike is old enough and experienced enough to handle his own fights. The Chicken McNugget deputy comes hustling into the room in time to pin Jim back in his chair.

Chris elbows Jonathan sharply in the side and knocks away the hands at his throat, annoyed. "Stop it."

"Outside. _Now_," growls the sheriff but he backs off, allowing Chris to stand on his own two feet.

"He doesn't take orders from you," Jim fires back, red in the face from struggling against the two men holding him down. When one multiplied into two, Pike doesn't know.

"Jim," Pike warns, "be quiet." To Archer, he says, "I'm not leaving. You owe me this. I need to talk to him."

Jon looks grimmer than ever, and his voice is low, close to deadly. "We talk first, or the deal's off. Your choice, Detective." The man breathes deeply, just once, and tries to communicate something else to Pike in the struggle of emotion on his face.

Well damn. He hadn't expected Archer to flip out. Not yet, at least.

Knowing his friend has drawn a line and won't back down from it, Chris nods and tucks his chair under the table. Then he strides around Archer and to the wide-open door, ignoring the curious faces on the other side of it. Once in the neighboring room with soundproofed walls, Chris shoves a hand through his hair and releases a pent-up, peeved sigh. "Damn it, Jon, what's gotten into you?" he begins as the door swings shut behind Jonathan, granting a measure of privacy to their conversation.

Chris doesn't anticipate the punch. The blow glances off his jaw, more like a badly aimed clip than a solid hook but it successfully sends Pike crashing into the wall at his back. Because he has felt Jon's fist before, he knows right away that the blow was deflected on purpose. That means it's a warning, not a precursor to an outright brawl.

Then abruptly Jonathan is much too close, breathing heavily on him, pinning him to the wall and talking furiously. It takes a second before Chris's brain comes online and starts to translate the outpouring of words.

"...my investigation, Pike, my fucking investigation! You know something, you don't fucking keep it to yourself!"

"Archer—" Chris shoves back at the man's shoulders but he doesn't budge. "Jonathan. _JON!_"

The intensity in Jon's eyes abates somewhat, and he focuses on Pike. That focus ends in a growl. "I ought to kick your ass, you son of a bitch."

No choice, then, but to fight dirty. Jim would be so proud. Unexpectedly, Chris goes limp in the sheriff's hold and makes a grunt of pain, one that is not altogether feigned. "My arm," he grits out, "...at least let go of my arm."

Almost immediately, Jon releases him.

Chris straightens. "Thank you." Then, with a flicker of a grim smile, he puts a fist in the sheriff's gut. Blindsided, Jon staggers back and doubles over with a gasp. "Ow, fuck" comes a pained wheeze. "What was that for?"

Chris probes at the sore spot on his jaw tentatively. It doesn't hurt overly much. Hopefully it won't bruise. "If you hit a man, expect him to hit back."

"It was just one punch!"

Pike snorts. "Ditto. Quit whining, you baby."

With an expression warring between affronted and pissed, Jonathan glares up at him, hands braced on his knees. "Fine. I won't hit you anymore."

"I think you told me that once before."

"I'm not sorry."

"Neither am I."

They stare at each other. It's Archer who caves first with a slight droop to his shoulders. "Why are you holding out on me, Chris?"

"Would you have believed me if I told you what I was thinking?"

Archer grunts contemplatively and rubs a hand across the stubble along the bottom of his chin. "Doesn't matter. If you've got a theory, you're supposed to share with the rest of the class. Do you know what kind of jackass I look like when somebody starts spouting about murder—"

"Attempted murder," Chris corrects.

"—and I don't even have a fucking clue what he's going on about?" Archer comes to stand an arm's length away. "Now why the hell is Montgomery Scott at the top of anybody's hit list?"

Chris just looks at him.

Archer's eyebrows draw together like thunderclouds. "Damn. Why can't a theft just be a theft?" He turns away slightly, muttering under his breath. "—fuck my life, like somebody's goddamn daily soap."

"Did you think that gunman earlier was just a wackjob, Jon? C'mon, don't tell me you've forgotten your training since you've been behind the desk. The bullet hole was less than two feet from where the kid was standing. An amateur could figure it out."

"Don't insult me."

"If the shoe fits." Chris leans against the wall, hating that he suddenly feels drained. He smirks so Archer will take the movement as casual rather than necessary.

"I hate you," his friend says without any real heat. "All right, I'll bite. Somebody wants that idiot dead and was stupid and desperate enough to take him out before we had a chance to question him. But damn it, Chris, we have the star! So what was the point?"

"That's why I have to talk to Jim. He knows. I think Scotty's escape wasn't out of fear of arrest." Chris pushes away from the wall in a swell of frustration. "But why? What part does _Jim _play?"

"Chris..."

Pike goes to the mirror and stares at his son in the next room, who is slumped in his seat, arms crossed in a show of defiance. With a glare fixed upon the table, Jim is the perfect image of a surly adolescent, despite having left adolescence behind years ago.

"_Christopher,_" Jonathan says softly, having snuck up on him. With gentle fingers, Jon tugs Chris's injured arm away from his side and inspects it. "Do you need McCoy?"

"Hm? No."

"You're bleeding again."

Chris had not realized that. He peers at the darkening wet spot on the fabric of his jacket. Just another problem in a long list of them. Maybe it is the blood loss making him so tired.

Jonathan's expression is tinged with regret. "I lost my temper and hurt you. Chris, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

"Yeah, all abused wives say that."

His mouth quirks of its own volition. "I'm not your wife, Jonathan." Instantly, Chris wishes he hadn't said that.

But Jon merely lets go of his arm and orders, "Go change your bandage, make certain the stitches didn't tear. We can finish this discussion after."

Chris hates to lose time because of an injury. Now, more than ever, his instinct is saying they are running out of time. Jim is in the interrogation room, not under a murderer's gun, yet time is still running out. He needs to know why.

"Don't worry," Jonathan says, no doubt reading something in Chris's troubled expression, "Kirk's safe for now. How about if I order one of the deputies to bring him a cup of coffee?"

"He doesn't drink coffee."

"Soda then. Paranoid little shit will probably think we're trying to drug him with truth serum anyway."

Pike slants an amused look at the sheriff. "Don't call him a 'little shit'."

Jon's mouth curves too. "Well, the boy's your son, isn't he?"

And just like that, they are back on even ground, familiar ground. Chris couldn't be more relieved. He heads for the door, hand pressed against the bloody patch on his jacket.

* * *

"Why's he still here?"

Archer shoves a booted foot against a table leg, rattling the furniture in warning. "_He _is the Sheriff, One Eye. Since you're in my town, you're my problem. Suck it up."

Seeing fire kindle in Jim's blue gaze, Pike intervenes with "Gentlemen, please. Jim, this is Archer's case. In fact, he has more right to be here than I do."

A muscle in Kirk's face twitches. He goes with the old line: "I want to speak to my lawyer."

Jonathan retorts, "It's Christmas. All the lawyers are dead."

Pike puts a hand over his eyes. He had forgotten Jon's level of maturity is far below Jim's. This is not going to be fun—not for the only adult in the room, which sadly is him. "If you two are done trying to figure out whose balls are bigger, can we proceed with the interview?"

"Wow, Detective, you make it sound so nice. If this is going to be a tea party, can I have cake?" Jim responds, natural smartass that he is.

Archer snorts.

"Mr. Kirk, you will be silent unless you are directly and _helpfully _answering a question. Do I make myself clear?"

Jim grins then mimes zipping his mouth shut.

Jonathan leans over to Pike and whispers unnecessarily, "My balls are definitely bigger than his."

Chris is going to kill them. Both of them. And no one will convict him for the crime because of their asshattery. The joke is on Jim and Jon. "As you are undoubtedly aware someone attempted to end Mr. Scott's life a couple of hours ago." Pike pulls a mug-shot from a manila folder and slides it across the table. "Do you recognize him?"

Jim's gaze drops to the photograph of the male hooker, and his jaw tightens. "No," he says.

"Look at it carefully, Mr. Kirk. Have you seen the individual before?"

"No," Jim repeats. He pushes the picture away. "But the tattoo... maybe."

Archer picks up the photo. "The mark probably belongs to a local gang. You hang out in gangs much, kid?"

"Only the kind that frequent coffeshops."

"And dress up as elves," Jon adds dryly.

"Enough," Pike breaks in. "J—Mr. Kirk, tell me about the tattoo. Where else have seen you it?"

Jim looks at him, steady but silent.

"At the scene of the crime, then," Chris guesses.

Next to Pike, Archer straightens in his seat. "Don't put words in his mouth, Pike."

"I don't need to. The kid has an easy tell."

Jim's mouth drops open. "I do not!"

Archer relaxes, crossing his arms. "Actually you do."

"Yeah, well, your face is ug—"

"Jim," Chris warns, despite his growing amusement, "play nice."

Jim rattles the pair of handcuffs noisily. "Whatever, man. You're wrong anyway. I saw the guy last week. Scotty needed a ride to run an errand, and I borrowed Bones' truck to take him."

"What was the errand?"

Jim's eyes cut to the side then the ceiling. "Turn off the cameras."

"Hell no," Jon says at the same time Pike tells Jim, "They're off."

"_Why the hell did you turn off the cameras?_" demands an incredulous Archer.

The corner of Jim's mouth rises. "Spies," he replies.

Archer's look is more than enough to warn Jim to shut up. Only Jim has never been good at heeding warnings, Chris remembers belatedly.

"Who brought the tattoo-head in?" Jim points out.

Jon is out of his seat and leaning over the table in a heartbeat. "Watch what you say in my presence, Kirk. I don't forget easily and I sure as hell don't forgive."

Chris puts a restraining hand on Jon's arm. "Calm down. He's made a valid assumption, though I don't believe it is a correct one."

"I'm not wrong," Jim says in a voice that means he is feeling slightly wounded but won't admit it aloud.

"Yes, you are," Chris tells him calmly. "I talked to the arresting officer. The perp basically handed himself over on a platter. He wanted in this station, tonight, for a reason. Unfortunately, in hindsight we know why."

"The guy could have lied."

"Yes, he could have but I would bet he didn't."

After a few seconds Jim nods, accepting of Pike's instincts. Pike turns to Jon and says, "I shut the cameras down in case you begin to feel violent at any point during this conversation."

Archer stops grumbling and starts to smile slowly. "Oh, Christopher," the sheriff murmurs, "I always did love your loyal streak. I'm touched!"

"No point in losing your job over a recalcitrant witness like Kirk. Also," Chris's eyes crinkle at the corners, "no witnesses."

Disbelievingly, Jim eyes his father-turned-traitor. He not so subtly begins to tug at the handcuffs.

"Anything to add, Jim?" Pike asks mildly.

"I'm not recalcitrant."

"That's wonderful news. Why don't we go back to where we left off? What was your friend's errand?"

Jim looks at the ceiling and swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with the motion. "If I have to tell you this, I should start at the beginning."

Archer leans forward, looking both eager and consternated that Jim is willing to talk so freely all of a sudden. "Then start at the beginning, kid."

"Don't call me kid."

"Why not? Your boyfriend does."

Jim's face flushes to a deep red. "McCoy is my _best_friend. There's a difference, asshole."

Chris pounds a fist on the table to gain their attention. "Jon, shut up already. Jim, not that I don't appreciate your willingness to cooperate, but _stay on topic_. You wanted me here so here I am."

Jim looks like he is fighting the urge to squirm. "I told you about Scotty a couple of weeks ago, remember? The guy who repairs the forklifts?"

Chris leans back, thinking. "...At your job?"

"Yeah."

He is silent for a moment because he is irritated at himself. How had he not made that connection? Chris had seen the client list Montgomery Scott had reluctantly provided (the young man is an independent contractor, repairing odds and ends at various businesses to make a living) but hadn't _seen_it, not in the sense that Jim's place of work is one of Scott's employers.

"Dad?"

Chris puts aside his self-reprimand at the sound of his son's voice. "Scott's the one who shared his turkey sandwich with you on your first day."

Jim's expression softens marginally. "Yes. He's a decent guy. Smart."

"Shy," Pike adds.

Jim nods. "People think that means they can push him around, or cheat him even when he's done more work than they asked for." Pike doesn't have to read too far between the lines to realize how Jim would handle the idiots who tried to take advantage of someone Jim considers his friend—in other words, under his protection. Not many individuals know this but Jim is fiercely overprotective of those he feels close to at times, to the point that it can be annoying. Pike wouldn't want him any other way.

"Are we done lauding the criminal?" Jonathan interrupts, no doubt annoyed to be left out of the reminiscing.

Jim visibly bristles. "Scotty is not a criminal."

"That's not what's in my report—unless you've got a good reason for it to be otherwise."

"Jim, listen to Archer for a minute." Pike exchanges a quick look with the sheriff before saying, "It's not just Scotty who's at stake here." Time to use the knife. This isn't going to go well at all. "McCoy confessed. Said he masterminded the whole thing as a some kind of prank."

Jim doesn't seem to comprehend his words, or has lost his ability to comprehend them. He looks utterly blank, staring at them as Pike's statement ripens in the silence. Until Chris calls his name.

Then Jim is on his feet, his handcuffed arm wrenched awkwardly out of joint as he braces himself one-handed on the table. His skin looks paper-thin so up-close and pale, nearly translucent. "It's a lie, Dad, he's lying."

Pike sucks in a sharp breath, not expecting to see his son this desperate.

"Dad, you know he's lying! Bones didn't do _anything_." Jim's voice grows in volume, oscillating between demanding and panicked. "He didn't even want me to go! Dad, _Dad_, please listen—"

Archer is the one hauling Jim backward, arms hooked under Kirk's armpits. "Calm down—hey, kid, calm down! Jesus Christ." Whether subconsciously or not, Jim is fighting him.

Chris goes to Jim's side and puts his hand against the back of Jim's neck. "Jim, we need you to calm down, son. It's okay. Calm down. Take a deep breath."

All of the fight shudders out of Jim as he exhales, and Kirk drops like a dead weight into his chair. Chris looks at Jon over the boy's head.

Jonathan has a strange look on his face. "Well, that explains nothing... and yet explains too many things." He sighs heavily and drags a chair next to Jim's. Chris joins him there and wraps a hand around the top of the chair. "Kirk, God forbid, one hell of an act or not, I'm beginning to believe you. If Scotty didn't do it, McCoy didn't do it, and you didn't either... who the fuck I am supposed to have in my jail?"

"It wasn't a prank," Jim says hollowly. "Why would Bones even...?"

"Leonard is more concerned with protecting you than himself," Chris answers softly, giving Jonathan a look that says _be patient, he heard you_.

"But it's my fault," Jim admits, looking at his father. "He thought I was doing something stupid, and I told him he didn't have to come along... but he did anyway. You know what he's like, Dad."

"Sure, I do," Pike agrees sympathetically, even though he fears he doesn't know McCoy well enough at all. It sounds as though Leonard acted against his better judgment—but since he did it in regards to Jim, Pike could understand that.

Jim's gaze transfers from Pike's to Archer's. "Scotty doesn't have a lot of paying customers. He takes what he can get. A couple of weeks ago he got a call from someone who said his services were recommended by the owner of the Village. You know he's employed there during the season to keep their lights working and to fix circuits when they break."

Pike nods, saying nothing. It would be foolish to interrupt when Jim clearly has something he wants to say.

"They commissioned him to recreate the North Star, wire by wire. Offered him a lot of money to do it, too."

"Why would anyone want a replica of that piece of junk?" Archer asks, but Chris waves the question away with his hand and tells Jim to continue.

Jim looks away. "The next day, Scotty said he received an envelope of cash—enough to cover the first installment of payment. He used the money to buy the materials for the project. He was happy—until he found what they wanted the replica for." Dragging his free hand through his hair, Jim stares at a spot on the wall. His voice is soft and detached, a storyteller's voice. "That was the day I took him on the errand. They said they wanted proof he was working on it or he wouldn't get the second installment. So we loaded what he had in the back of Bones' truck. I didn't get out, wasn't my business." He gestures listlessly at his forehead. "But I did see the guy who came out of the building. Bald head, blue tattoo."

"Why do I know that tattoo?" Archer asks quietly.

"He took a look at Scotty's work, they talked for a minute and then went inside. When Scotty came back out, he was nervous, anxious to get away. I thought maybe they had scared him or something, but he wouldn't talk to me."

"But he told you eventually?" Chris asks.

Jim meets his eyes. "He told Uhura. He's sweet on her so I coaxed her into asking him. He looked sick, Dad, and that guy—there was something really off about him. I shouldn't have let Scotty go in alone," finishes Kirk bitterly.

Pike wishes he was sitting instead of standing. His heartbeat feels erratic. "Tell me the rest."

"They made him wait in an office while they got the money. He saw blueprints on the desk and Scotty, being Scotty, had to look at them. I don't think those bastards would have left the blueprints out in the open like that if they knew Scotty was smart enough to know what he was looking at it." Jim's expression remains unreadable as he explains, "It was a schematic of the star Scotty was building, re-engineered to accommodate explosives."

The silence in the room seems to span an eternity though it lasts only seconds. Pike's fingers dig into the wood of the chair. "Jim..."

Jim's face comes alive again. "He was afraid, Dad. Not just because he knew what they intended to do with it, but because he couldn't back out of the deal at that point. If they were already planning to hurt people, what would one guy like Scotty matter?"

"Kirk," Jon wants to know, "if these... terrorists had the technical skills to redesign Scott's work, why would they hire the services of a shop mechanic?"

Chris doesn't know whether he is annoyed or proud that Archer is trying to tackle the flaws in the confession.

"To frame him for the crime" is Jim's immediate, unwavering answer. His blue eyes blaze with anger. "Which will happen on a cold day in Hell."

Stomach sinking, Chris's brain comes to the conclusion he won't like anything Jim admits to from here on out. "What are you saying?"

"What do you think? We came up with a plan to stop them."

"You—" Chris tries to process that, fails and falls silent.

Jim looks at Archer. "We hid it, then Sulu called the owner and left an anonymous tip that someone was stealing it."

Archer's knuckles whiten against his pants leg. "You're lying. We have the star."

"No, you don't," Jim replies grimly, matching Archer stare for stare. "You have Scotty's decoy, the one he failed to deliver to his client. And I hope," Jim adds, jaw clenching, "those fuckers try and come get it."


	11. X: Scott

**X: Scott**

_There is the faith that never fails,  
The courage in the danger place_

A.C. Doyle: Retrospect

* * *

Archer turns without a word and leaves Pike alone with Jim. Chris gropes for the vacated chair and eases into it, not daring to take his eyes off of his son.

"Jim," he questions slowly, because words seem difficult at the moment, "what is this?"

Jim looks at him askance. "I told you."

"It's a trap."

Kirk nods.

Chris props an elbow on the table and drops his forehead into the palm of his hand, a fervent curse on his lips. There would be no point in questioning whether or not Jim is simply pulling his leg; this is _mad_, and so it must be undeniably real.

He doesn't realize how close Jim has scooted to him until a hand touches Chris's left sleeve lightly. Chris jerks back on instinct, lifting his head to level a stare at Kirk. Jim barely recoils, determinedly inspecting Pike's injury, his free arm somehow contorted across his handcuffed one like a game of Twister.

Chris could demand the boy leave him alone but he knows better. With a barely audible sigh, he shifts so Jim doesn't have to contort quite so painfully to do what he wants to do.

"Does it hurt?" Jim asks, eyes darkened by his concern, as his fingers hover near a dried blood stain on Pike's jacket.

"It's not an issue."

Jim's gaze snaps up to meet his. "Not an issue? Dad, you got s—" Jim struggles with the word.

"Hey," Chris murmurs soothingly, resting a hand against his son's face, "it's just a graze. McCoy took care of it already."

"I would have never called you if—"

"Not another word, Jim. What's done is done. Would it have been better for me to read about the aftermath of your 'trap' in the paper or see it on tomorrow's local news?" Chris cannot help the grimness of his tone. "No, you did the right thing—though I can't say I think you did the _wisest _thing." His temper awakens with that statement. "What in god's name possessed you, Jim!"

Jim winces. "But, Dad, Scotty's in trouble..."

"You should have gone to the police!"

"We did!" replies his son earnestly with an open-handed gesture at their surroundings.

"Not like this," Chris articulates with care, hearing the steel in his own voice. "Jim, a man came into this building and tried to kill someone. Don't you think it would have been prudent to warn one of the officers to be on the lookout for crazy, tattoo-head assassins?"

"I didn't think..."

"Exactly. You didn't think, Jim." Pike takes a moment to regain his calm. He continues more quietly, "I know you don't trust cops on general principle, but I had hoped by now you might trust me as one. You could have come to me with this. You should have." _You might have died before I even realized there was a problem. _He holds back that last part because it crushes him to think of it.

Jim's eyes stay focused on a corner of the room. "I guess... I made a mistake."

Chris knows this is all he will get from Jim now, here, with the cameras and the recorders and the possibility of them being watched. So he lets the not-quite apology go as what it stands and forces himself to sit back and assess the rest of the situation. Jim's plan may be to hole up in the Sheriff's department but there needs to be _more_...

Just when he is ready to voice his own ideas, the door swings open. An expressionless Archer comes into the room with a stumbling man in tow, who is revealed as Montgomery Scott once summarily shoved under the harsh overhead light. Scott looks slightly stunned.

Jim's first instinct is to go to his friend. The handcuffs prevent that. Not that it matters because Montgomery immediately hurries to Kirk's side and looks at Archer, wide-eyed, from over Jim's shoulder.

"Leave him alone," Jim challenges belligerently to the sheriff.

"Oh, I'm not going to bother him, Kirk," Jonathan replies, voice deceptively mild. "Rest assured, I'm not going to touch _either _of you."

Jim eyes Archer distrustfully.

"Pike," says Archer, "a word."

It would be foolish to deny Jonathan anything now. Jim's fate rests in his hands. And, boy, has Jim made a mess of that fate thus far. Chris goes with Jon to stand just outside of the closed door. They both cross their arms and take a few seconds to inspect each other's expressions. To an outsider's perspective, the two men might be squaring off for a nasty kind of fight.

"Did I mention that I hate your kid?"

"You did."

"Well let me reiterate that with feeling, Christopher." Jonathan's gaze turns speculative as it tracks past Pike to the desks and copier. "So we're going to war."

Pike feels his eyebrows shoot upward. "War?"

"I've issued a lockdown on the building, posted a man at each entrance, and recalled the patrol."

Really? Archer thinks of his deputies as an _army_? Chris would be amused if the situation wasn't so dire.

"But," Jonathan continues, returning his attention to Pike, "we already have an enemy behind the lines. We need to take care of that."

"What do you suggest?"

Jon's grin is slow but sure. "We give the bastard a chance to complete his mission."

"That's a terrible idea, Jon." Chris rubs vigorously at his temples. "Why would you even..."

"Hey, it's really no different than your boy's plan."

"Which is my point exactly, you dimwit! I never said Jim's plan was a good idea either."

Jonathan looks slightly startled. "It's kind of brilliant, though. With the arrest and the lure..."

Pike backs Jon up to the door, eyes narrowed and voice menacing. "If you _ever_ tell Kirk you approve of his insane ideas, there will be nowhere you can hide from me, Archer. I will find you and _destroy you_. Are we clear?"

Jonathan waggles his eyebrows. "Is this foreplay?" Then he looks confused. "Or is it roleplay?"

Without another word, Pike tugs open the door and leaves Jonathan to sort out the confusion by himself. It's smarter for all involved not to egg an unstable man on.

Jim has discarded his handcuffs. Pike should be surprised, but he isn't. And Scotty, apparently, never had handcuffs on. Whether or not that is an oversight on Jon's part, Chris does not know. "Let's talk for a minute," he tells the two young men.

Scott makes a helpless gesture with his hands and looks to Jim. Jim responds evenly, "We will cooperate with you, Detective."

It's about damn time! If he hadn't been practicing his poker face for decades, Jim would be able to tell how relieved he is. Now is definitely not the time to let Jim think his father might go easy on him, especially since Chris wants Jim to _listen_to what he has to say.

"From here on out, my authority supersedes yours, Mr. Kirk." _Usually I don't have to tell the perp this_. He draws in a quick breath to continue. "You will follow my orders or Sheriff Archer's orders without question." He focuses for a split second on the man next to Jim. "That goes for your friends as well. Make certain they fall in line. Lives depend on it."

Jim gives a short nod of understanding.

"We've decided—" Pike pauses, wondering where Archer has gotten to. "—there is little we can do except hold out until morning and be prepared for an attack, if it comes to that. Jim, we will need to know where you hid the original star."

"It's in the Candy Cane house," Scotty offers shyly. "Nobody goes in there unless they have to... too much red 'n white. Makes a man feel unsettled."

Chris doesn't pinch the bridge of his nose but it is a near thing. "Thank you for that information, Mr. Scott. Is your... decoy fully functional?"

"Aye, it'll run." Scotty takes an sidelong glance at Jim. "But I put in a failsafe switch, in case it were to fall into the wrong hands. Jim's got the controller."

Jim blinks innocently at Pike's hard stare. Then, rolling his eyes like the immature child he can be, Kirk holds up a cell phone, seemingly out of thin air, and flips it open. "Scotty set it up so we can put in a code and cut the power remotely. It's pretty genius." In front of Pike, Jim frowns at something on his cell phone screen and fiddles with the phone's keys.

"I know you're not texting right now, Jim," Chris says in his hardiest disapproving voice.

"Erm, yes? Just a minute, Dad. Bones sent me a message."

Chris almost explodes. How in the _hell_ did Jim's entire ragtag team sneak in cell phones? Are Archer's men really so incompetent to miss _that_in a body search?

Jim shoots him an amused look. "You don't want to know."

Chris takes the boy at his word. "Put that thing away."

"Yes, sir." Jim does so with an unabashed grin.

"Okay, here's what you two will do for the time being..." begins Pike, hoping to corral some of Jim's wilder instincts.

Archer bursts into the room, slams the door shut and locks it from the inside. Then he pulls out his gun, and Pike knows without asking questions they have a serious problem. Jim knows it too, if his demand of "What's happening?" is anything to go by.

Chris points to the corner next to the mirror, which is the only position in the room that provides some modicum of cover from someone looking into the room (it won't hide them if the cameras are online, though) and orders, "Stand over there."

Jim hesitates, which bodes ill for his supposed agreement to follow orders.

"Now!" Pike snaps.

Scotty grabs Jim's arm and hustles him to the corner.

"What happened, Jon?" Chris asks quietly.

Archer unloads and reloads his gun's clip after checking the number of bullets. "He escaped."

For one quick second, Chris wonders if Archer let the bastard out like he suggested they do earlier.

The hurt in Jonathan's eyes says he knows what Pike is thinking. "He pulled a fast one on Matthews, feigned death or something. Kid only had a taser, thank god, but things won't go well if the weapons cabinet is compromised."

Chris has a cold feeling in his gut.

"Dad, _Dad_," Jim whispers furiously, "we can't stay here."

Chris knows that. They're sitting ducks in this room. He also knows Jim is worried about the others. This could go south in so many ways, the worst being hostages are taken from the cells and executed one by one until the demands are met. Pike can see the scenario clear as day, having been involved in situations too similar more times than he cares to remember. The thought never fails to make him feel sick. "At this point we can't assume he thinks Scott is the only witness he needs to be rid of."

"Or that he is willing to take what he came for and leave. Loose ends and all that," Archer adds.

Chris is already thinking far ahead. ...That could work. Yes, it could. He comes to a snap decision, reaching for the doorknob. "Protect them for me, Jon."

Jonathan blocks him from turning the lock. "Whoa, I make the calls here! You're not leaving."

"But I am," Chris tells his friend with a humorless smile.

"If anything needs doing, I'm the one to do it."

"You have the gun, therefore you get to stay with Jim and Scotty."

Without thinking, Archer flips the gun around in his hand and offers it to Pike. "Take it! But for god's sake..."

It's the opportunity Chris is waiting for. He latches onto Archer's wrist and twists the man aside, using a technique that Jon never could quite figure out how to counter during their Academy years. How many times did he disable Jonathan like this before? Enough that he always laughed about it with friends.

Chris isn't laughing now. He takes no pleasure in having to do this. Some part of him is gravely disappointed that the trick still works so easily. Jon is out of his way, and Chris lets the gun drop to the ground at the man's feet. In the next instant he is outside of the room, carefully and quietly shutting the door upon Jon's cry of his name and Jim's upset "Dad!"

Jon won't come after him. There won't be time to. He will be too busy fighting Kirk into the ground to keep him from running after Pike. That's just as well. However much he trusts a man like Jonathan Archer at his back, Chris would gladly spare him what is to come.

What Chris doesn't expect, and what he probably should have, is the person who bolts out of the room before he is more than five steps away, slamming the door shut again and bending over the doorknob with a curse.

"_Mr. Scott_," Chris says furiously, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Jamming the lock," mutters the younger man.

Chris pulls him aside but it's too late. A piece of metal has been broken off in the keyhole. Chris looks at Jim's friend incredulously.

Montgomery squares his shoulders. "Sir. Twas my fault to begin with. I have to make it right."

Someone tries turning the knob, to no avail, then starts pounding on the door. The pounding doubles. A sensation prickles along the back of Pike's neck, and he drags Scotty toward Archer's office, certain they are being watched.

"You're a fool," he says in an undertone to the idiot in his grasp, "and I didn't think anybody could be more of a fool than my son, so congratulations."

"Thank you?"

"Get in." He shoves Scotty through the office door and closes it partially. Eyeing the sidekick he didn't ask for, Chris asks, "Do you know how to fight?"

"Only if I got a wrench in my hand," admits Scotty.

Pike hands him the baseball bat propped inside the umbrella stand by the door. "Use this. Stand to the side, and if someone comes through that door, hit him as hard as you can."

"But what if—"

"Hit first, Mr. Scott, ask questions later."

"Okay."

Chris encounters the next big problem when he tries to open the closet door. After a quick, fruitless search of the desk (he finds a pair of handcuffs that might be useful and puts them in his pocket), Chris comes to the conclusion that Jonathan has the key. He resorts to kicking the door in, successfully managing it on the third try, which does nothing good for his hip. The blanket-wrapped star looks innocent enough, one of its tinsel-foiled points glittering in the light of the room. Chris lifts it free of its hiding place.

"Is that...?" Scotty starts. "Why's it in a closet?"

"Don't ask," Pike grunts.

When Scotty moves to help him, Chris tells him sharply, "No! I need you to stay on guard."

Looking speculatively from the baseball bat to the star, the young man suggests he be the one to carry the replica around. Chris thinks on that for a moment but declines. When it comes down to it, the more hostile attention he can divert from his counterpart, the better. With Pike lumbering under the additional weight of the star, they ease from the office and through the open area of the building.

The prickling at the back of Chris's neck intensifies as they move on to the front hallway. The hall is dark and eerily quiet. When they turn a corner, Pike notices no one is guarding the set of double doors that lead to the street. He hates to think of what happened to that deputy. If they're lucky, they will find the poor man tied up somewhere.

Whispering, perhaps because of the unsettling atmosphere, Scotty wants to know, "Where're we going?"

Pike, on the other hand, lets his voice carry. "Help me take this to my truck. It's just outside."

They are close to the entrance now, a few footsteps away, when Chris spies the motion of a hither-to inanimate shadow from the corner of his eye. "Down!" he hisses to the man at his side.

Scotty, as smart as he is, doesn't question the order. He simply drops like a stone. Chris is already pivoting around, slightly unbalanced by the weight of the object in his hands, but he uses what momentum he can to throw it at the man rushing toward them. Pike can see the moment of vacillation in the other man's eyes as options, or orders, are weighed. In the end, the man chooses as Pike hopes he would. He tries to catch the falling star.

Pike wrenches the baseball bat from Scotty's hands and cracks it against one of the vulnerable kneecaps of their would-be assailant. The guy cries out and goes down, letting his precious armful clatter to the ground beside him.

In retrospect, Pike should have anticipated being in close range of a weapon. The first electrical jolt of the taser is enough to sear his nerve endings from the roots of his hair all the way down to the tips of his toes. Chris loses his grip on the baseball bat as his knees give out in shock. The taste of blood fills his mouth. He has bitten through his tongue.

There is a dull roar in his ears, worse than the skittering sensation across his skin, but he can still see and blinks rapidly to clear the hazy white dots dancing in front of his eyes. Scotty flings himself toward the baseball bat, latching onto it at the same time the other man does. A swipe with the taser is a near-miss but Scotty twists out of the way with a cry Pike can barely hear.

Time feels like it is slowing to a crawl. Pike pitches forward and catches himself on his hands. His arms waver but hold, and the iron fist around his lungs suddenly loosens. Chris gasps in the air he desperately needs and tries to get back on his feet.

The man has both weapons, and Scott is going to die. Chris can't let that happen, uncooperative limbs or not. He just survived an unmitigated electrical shock, and so he can keep on surviving, has to, if only to save this one person, just one more before somebody takes him out for good.

Because Chris is supposed to be down for the count, twitching on the ground, the bastard advancing on Scotty is none-the-wiser when Pike slips up to him from behind and catches his raised wrist. Their eyes meet in that instant, Pike's desperate but determined and his enemy's full of an unmasked hatred, and Chris cracks a bloody grin. He clamps his fingers around those holding onto the trigger of the taser, and slams the arm down at the proper angle to force the wired prongs to meet flesh.

It's awful, watching a man's eyes roll up in his head as he goes taut with pain; and for Pike, in those long seconds, it feels equally satisfying.

Scotty's eyes are huge in his white face as the writhing man keels over with a half-gasp, half-cry before suddenly becoming still. Pike staggers backward, then into a wall, and makes a sound that is supposed to a command to his companion. After the second try, he manages to groan coherently, "The bat—get it."

Scotty does, checking nervously if the unconscious man is breathing while he's at it. His voice is relieved when he claims, "The bugger's alive."

Sitting is good. Pike is just going to sit down for a while, a very little while. Until his legs are steadier and his head is clearer.

"Sir?"

Is it normal for his chest to hurt so badly?

"Er, Detective? Pike—Mr. Pike? Oh geez, are you okay?"

Because if this feeling of someone squeezing his ribcage isn't normal, then he is probably in the throes of a heart attack. How cliché. Jim is going to freak out.

And that's the last thought Chris has before his vision blacks out... only to, an indeterminate amount of time later, return to his senses with a jolt when someone starts to gently slap the side of his face. Montgomery Scott is leaning over him (when did Pike end up on his back?), and the boy looks very sick to his stomach. He's saying something about _don't die!_ and _I don't know what to do_. Pike feels a keen sympathy for him.

"Handcuffs..." Chris tells him, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. He repeats the word and hopes Scotty understands him.

It seems so as the young man digs the pair of handcuffs out of Pike's jacket pocket and scrambles away to deal with their attacker. If Scotty flinches as he drags the dead weight of the unconscious man across the hallway to a wall radiator (to which he then handcuffs the bastard's limp wrist), Pike will pretend to have never seen it. Scotty comes back, the emotion on his face warring between relieved and upset that Pike has dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall.

"I'm gonna call an ambulance," he says to Chris.

"No." Chris is tired and every inch of his skin feels like it's been scraped raw. "Get Archer."

Jim's friend frowns at Pike's logic. "So the sheriff can call the ambulance?"

Damn, the kid has a point. "Never mind. Find McCoy."

"...So _he _can call the ambulance?"

Chris sighs heavily. "Just... help me up."

It is a good thing the kid has not yet acquired the courage to pin Chris in place like a few certain individuals (who shall remain nameless) undoubtedly would do. He does admit it is slightly embarrassing, however, when Scotty has to take the majority of his weight so he can stay upright. Neither of them spares a second thought for the broken star as they limp back towards Archer's office.


	12. XI: Pike

**XI: Pike**

_While I am I, and you are you,  
So long as the world contains us both...  
While the one eludes, the other must pursue:_

Browning: Life in a Love

* * *

"You are the biggest asshole this side of the Mississippi! I will kill you! No, first I'll take my belt to your backside and THEN I'LL KILL YOU!"

The EMT ducks his head into the ambulance and pretends not to be listening. Pike props his shoulder against the side of the ambulance, grateful that at least his legs will hold his weight now. "There's no need to yell," he tells Archer.

"I'm not yelling!" the man snaps. "This is not _yelling_."

"No, it's snarling. Same difference."

"Fuck you."

"Aw, you care," Pike quips dryly.

"He's allowed to yell," another unhappy voice chimes in.

Chris shouldn't feel this embarrassed. He is the parent, not the child, and yet Jim's expression makes him want to squirm. He reigns in that urge hard and pokes the shoulder of the EMT, pointing in his son's direction. "Did you look him over?"

The EMT perks up, maybe because he finally thinks someone is going to submit to an actual examination of their injuries. Then Jim prudently steps behind Archer and looks offended that Pike would even suggest he might need medical attention. The EMT turns away from their little group again, muttering under his breath about the inevitable death of idiots not being his responsibility.

"I'm mad at you," Jim broadcasts to the entire parking lot.

Pike snorts softly. "I guess that makes us even, son."

Archer's glower has not abated in the short interlude. Jonathan puts a hand on Jim's shoulder, leveling one last mean glare at Pike before steering Jim away from the ambulance. Their boots leave behind a trail of deep prints in the slushy snow. "Either you or Sulu," the sheriff is telling Kirk loudly enough for Pike to hear, "needs to go with one of my men to pick up the real star. Blasted thing. If I never see anything like it again, I will die a happy man."

Pike watches as Sulu detaches himself from the circle of others loitering next to the building's steps and volunteers to ride with a deputy over to the Village. Spock steps forward as well. Jim says something to both of them. Pike looks away, shifting his stance in discomfort.

"If you won't go to the hospital, you should see your doctor in the morning," the EMT explains quietly as he thrusts a clipboard at Pike. "Sign here."

It's a form Pike has long been familiar with, and he scribbles his name at the bottom. "Sorry to hold you up."

The EMT looks at the pasty-faced man with the eye patch strapped to a gurney inside the ambulance. He motions at one of the uniformed men standing close by. "Someone needs to ride with him. I don't relish the thought of my partner and I getting carjacked on the way to the hospital."

"There will be someone with him," Pike assures the young man, "and another officer following behind."

The EMT nods. Chris trails away from the ambulance to find two deputies up to the task of escorting a prisoner to the local hospital and realizes belatedly, as he spies Archer in a low discussion with his men, that it isn't his job to oversee these kinds of details. This isn't his police station, his colleagues, or even his jurisdiction. He had forgotten that at some point during the last few hours.

An arm snakes across his shoulders, and Chris turns his head to look at Jon.

"Don't space out just yet," Jon murmurs, squeezing Chris's shoulder. "We need you."

"For?"

"Kirk's release form. Sign in a couple of places, swear your eternal soul as collateral, and I can let you take him home."

Pike dares to hope. "Are you sure?"

Jon gives him a slight smirk. "With Kirk? Never." His eyes search Pike's. "But I have a feeling I can find him if I need to."

They start walking, and Chris doesn't protest when Archer sticks by his side as they enter the building, transverse the hallways until they reach Archer's office and find a chair for Pike to get comfortable in. He asks because he has to know, "Who is going with you to make the delivery to the mayor?"

"It's a one-man job, Pike."

"You don't have to do it alone."

"I know." Jon flashes him a hint of a grin. "Don't worry too much. Whoever is behind the plot to ruin our Christmas probably knows by now that his dastardly plans have been foiled. Your boy was right about one thing—spies are everywhere."

"That never keeps them from trying again, you know," Chris points out.

"Oh, I'm counting on it. This town hasn't had a good villain to come along in a few years."

"Jon," Chris murmurs, pained, "you aren't supposed to want a villain."

"But how will anybody know I'm superhero if there's no villain?"

Pike really needs to get his son out of this town. Immediately. Jim would _love _the idea of a being a superhero. ...Oh, god.

"What's the matter?" Jonathan asks sharply.

Pike doesn't bother lifting his head from his hands as he explains. "I just pictured you and Jim fighting over who gets to wear the cape. I... will probably need to go to the hospital after all. Eventually." Soon, no doubt.

"You get the oddest ideas, Christopher."

"Well, you're my friend. What do you expect?"

Archer isn't offended by the remark at all, it seems. He is looking at Chris fondly, the expression still familiar despite how much time has passed. Pike waves the man away, demanding he go type up those forms to have Jim released. Jonathan leaves, wordless, but smiling to himself like a fool.

Chris thinks they're both fools. Two very old foolish men. It's best not to think about that right now, he decides and closes his eyes.

* * *

It is dawn by the time things are settled enough that Pike feels he can take Jim home without leaving too much cleanup for Archer. He can't have caffeine stimulants due to the electrical shock (Leonard almost jumped down his throat when he saw Pike with an unopened can of Red Bull), so it's only through sheer will and many years of 18-hour shifts that Chris is mostly coherent and able to function. However, it is easy to imagine collapsing the moment he steps foot inside his home.

On the stoop of the Sheriff's department, a man stands, a ghost of longing on his otherwise carefully neutral face. The sight brings to mind the last goodbye between him and Archer, and Chris feels a pang of regret.

"Well, this is déjà-vu," Archer begins with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes but, much to Chris's relief, stops there. The past is the past, and they can't go back; they both know it.

Jonathan's smile softens around the edges. "It was nice to see you again, Christopher. Travel safe and all that."

Pike lifts a hand in goodbye, knowing there isn't much he could—or should—say, and Jon nods curtly, tucking his hands into his uniform pants pockets. Pike turns away, with a vague sense of guilt, and marches his son towards his truck. They swipe the snow off the door handles and after a few insistent tugs, the ice holding the doors hostage cracks and gives away. The temperature within is well below freezing. Chris climbs inside with a shiver.

Jim buckles his seat beat, all contemplative silence until his father puts the key in the ignition. "So," Kirk says, looking anywhere but at Pike, "you and Archer?"

"No, Jim," Chris responds with a deep sigh, letting the engine warm up before putting the truck in reverse, "there was no Archer and me," corrects himself, "_is _no Archer and me."

Jim peeks at him for a second from the corners of his eyes. "Oh." Then, with almost childish curiosity, "why not?"

There are so many things he could say to answer that and all of the answers would have some truth to them. But the one thing that is truest of all is what he tells his son: "We were close once, similar enough to be good friends but different when it came to our goals in life. I didn't want to jeopardize that friendship for something that couldn't work in the end anyway."

Jim's "Oh" is quieter this time. He sounds oddly disheartened when he murmurs, "I can understand that."

Pike carefully eases out of the parking lot and drives them to a street corner. His father-senses are on high alert as he slows to a complete stop and pretends to peer down the adjacent street at an approaching car. The car is plowing so slowly through the overnight snow fall, Pike could wait ten minutes to cross the street and still not be in danger of a collision. He puts his foot on the gas only for a moment before deciding better of the action.

Jim is going to be pissed with him in a few seconds. Chris eases back into his seat and keeps his gaze straight ahead through the windshield. "Is there something I need to know?"

"No." The answer comes much too quickly, which is an answer in and of itself.

"Do you _want _me to be involved with the town sheriff?" Chris phrases the question in just the right way that Jim's resounding "NO!" is very heartfelt and very loud. "Why not?" he tosses back at his son, mouth quirked.

"That would be, fuck—"

"Language," Jim's father reminds him.

Jim grimaces and drums his fingers on the dashboard. "I mean, _wow _that would be bad. Like seriously terrible, Dad."

"For who, exactly?"

Jim rolls his eyes and Chris is reminded that Jim may be mature but he is still very much a child when he decides to be. "You and another cop? Just—hell no, especially _him_."

Chris has a sudden flashback to a comment of McCoy's. Leonard had rolled his eyes only an hour ago, much like Jim just does now, and said in regards to Archer: "The man has all the grace of a mongoose in a berry patch."

_How true_, Pike thinks, almost snickering. Though now that he thinks about it, Jim could use another law enforcement officer as a parent. Maybe his expression conveys the train of thought because his son's eyes widen comically. Pike grins a little. "It would make my life easier."

Jim looks torn between the urge to fling himself out of the car and the need not to hurt his father's feelings. "Look, I don't care if you like a guy, Dad—who doesn't?—" Chris's eyebrows rise dramatically at this, "—but _not the sheriff of the town I live in_, okay? Then you'll be moving up here and I thought we were trying the whole 'my son is not a complete idiot and deserves to live independently of me if he so wishes.'"

"No, we're trying the 'I want my son to have a life that doesn't involve a serial arrest record and a bad reputation'. Whoops," Pike says sarcastically, "guess that was too good of a dream."

"You are so cruel to me, man."

"Jim, son, I love you, I do—but can you call me first before you decide to get involved in a terrorist attack or a burgeoning town scandal of some sort?"

Jim has sunken low into his seat. "I knew this was coming. Once is never enough with you. You're going to yell at me again."

Chris wants to. Oh, how he wants to! But while they were having this conversation-slash-friendly argument, he was fitting a few puzzle pieces together. Instead he asks, "Is there something you need to tell me about you and McCoy?"

Jim flushes but he doesn't deny it. "How did you know?"

"There were a lot of hints—from your friends and from you just now." Also, he doesn't say, _You looked like somebody ripped your heart out when Leonard said he would catch a ride with Uhura_. "Why haven't you said anything? Son, not to quote you, but I don't care either. If you're happy, I'm happy for you."

In a gesture of discomfort, Jim rubs at his nose with the back of his hand. "It's not anything, Dad." The _not yet and maybe never _is mournfully implied.

"So Leonard doesn't know?"

Jim cuts his eyes at Chris. "How should I know if he knows?"

_Boy, this is why you need a parent. _Chris is very tempted to smack the child upside the head. "What you mean is you haven't told him you like him."

"Oh god," Jim says with feeling, "are we really having this conversation?"

"Hopefully this goes better than the time I tried to explain sex to you," Pike remarks dryly.

As he'd hoped, Jim bursts out laughing at the memory. "Sock puppets don't even have genitalia, Dad. I'm still very traumatized."

Jim isn't the only one. It wasn't Pike's crowning moment as a father. "Okay, okay," he says, ready to leave this particular thread of conversation alone (and hopefully never to be mentioned again while he lives), "cut me some slack. I never expected to be a single father, let alone one that had a kid who tried to pick up a hooker at the age of thirteen."

Anybody else would have had the decency to look embarrassed about that. Jim simply grins. "It was easier than spying in the girls' locker room. I was curious."

"Just," Chris mutters, grimacing and rubbing one of his temples, "don't say anymore about that, Jim. Please."

"Yes, sir."

Chris figures he had better actually move the truck past the stop sign now. There is another car pulling to a stop behind his Ford, and the feeling of impatience from the other driver is almost palpable. "We can discuss McCoy when we get home."

Jim groans, clearly hoping his father had forgotten about that.

"I'll even pretend to be Leonard so you can practice your confession of undying love until you no longer stutter."

"Is it too late to turn around? I think I prefer jail and being glared at through the cell bars by your old flame."

"Jim," Chris replies grimly, "I may seem like a saint but I am not above murder."

Jim mumbles something under his breath, and Chris pretends not to hear it. Then Jim raises his voice. "I want I-HOP."

At least Jim knows when to back down—or when to acknowledge it might actually be safer to piss Pike off in the presence of witnesses.

"Christmas breakfast it is," Chris agrees. Some of the tension from the long night drains out of him. Jim is with him, finally.

Jim gives him directions to the only I-HOP on the outskirts of the town. They have a few minutes of blissful peace inside the truck cab while Pike navigates the icy roads. When he spies the sign of the restaurant in the distance, Jim breaks the silence.

"Dad..."

"Hm?"

"Thanks." Jim ducks his head. "For everything."

The smile tugging at Chris's mouth wins. "You're welcome, son." He adds softly as an afterthought, "We're okay."

Jim relaxes and reaches out to turn up the volume on the radio station. Pike flips on the left turn signal and slows to let a snow plow pass by. "I don't suppose you want to treat your old man to a meal to signify your gratitude."

Jim gives him a look that says quite clearly _are you joking? _"I don't have my wallet."

"It's in my coat pocket. I collected it from Evidence before we left. Surprisingly," Pike murmurs, "there was no cash in it."

"Um," Jim begins. "Is this a bad time to tell you that I got fired from my job?"

Pike doesn't whimper, not at all.

"But, Dad, it wasn't my fault," Jim is saying and really, someone needs to give the driver of the snow plow an award for impeccable timing. Chris can't hear his son's blabbering over the roar of the machine. He pulls into the I-HOP, resigned to the beginnings of a month-long migraine.

"Hey, are you crying?" Jim asks as they exit the truck.

"The wind's stinging my eyes. Just ignore me."

"But I don't feel any wind..."

"Jim."

"Shutting up now."

"Thank you."

But Jim has a need to talk, probably because watching his father have a nervous breakdown makes him uncomfortable. "Pancakes or waffles? I want waffles, hmm, maybe sausage—and bacon! Bones doesn't let me keep bacon at the house because he says I have an obsession that's close to an eating disorder and my arteries won't survive to the age of thirty-five. Only he's exaggerating, I'm not going to die of a heart attack from _bacon_... maybe of diabetes from the twinkies though. Not sure yet. Hey, can we pick up something for Bones too? He wouldn't eat the McDonald's Archer tossed at us."

Chris sighs inaudibly as he chooses an empty booth by a window. An waitress approaches their table and smiles tiredly at them. "Merry Christmas. Can I get you something to drink?"

Interceding as Jim opens his mouth, Chris replies for them both, "One water and one decaffeinated coffee, please. Black, no cream or sugar."

"I don't want coffee."

He would roll his eyes but he learned early on that only ends with Jim complaining when told to stop rolling his eyes at his father, "What? You do it too." Chris settles for pinning the kind of stare on Jim that makes most criminals blurt out their sins. "The coffee is mine."

Jim doesn't bat an eye. "I want orange juice."

"Never mind the water. Give the boy a glass of milk," Chris tells the waitress.

Jim's eyelids lower to half-mast. "Was that an opened bottle of liquor I saw in the backseat..._Dad_?"

Chris flushes and wonders how bad it would look if he abandoned his only child in the middle of the restaurant. By this point, the waitress has prudently left them to save her own sanity.

"Jim, let's try to make it through the rest of Christmas without winding up in the back of a police cruiser, okay?"

"Only if I don't have to drink the milk. I'm not a little kid."

"You're my kid, and that's all that matters to me." Jim doesn't know it yet but he is already caving. Or so Pike has been telling himself for years.

Jim reaches for the dispenser holding the jam packets and looks for a grape-flavored one. "Do you think it will work out?" he asks. "Me and Bones?"

"I know you, Jim. You'll try your best. If—if it still doesn't work out, come to me."

Fiddling with the plastic foil covering the grape jelly container, Jim frowns. "What can you do?"

"What fathers across the world have always done to the idiots who break their children's hearts."

Jim looks up, startled. "What?"

Chris busies himself sorting out his fork, knife, and spoon. "Pass me a napkin, will you?"

"You can't hurt Bones," Jim says slowly as he pulls a napkin from its dispenser and hands it over.

"Then make certain you convince him well."

Jim closes his mouth and smiles slowly, shyly. "Yeah—yeah, okay. I get it."

The waitress brings them the order of drinks, and Chris says nothing as Jim takes a healthy swallow of the milk.

"Who," he asks after a momentary silence, testing a theory, "is the candidate that lost to the mayor?"

Jim shrugs. "I didn't vote. Didn't like either of them."

"Can you recall a name?"

Giving him a funny look, Jim says, "Sure... Nero-something."

"Hm." Would Nero be on the top of Archer's list of suspects?

"Dad, what are you thinking?"

"Nothing in particular."

"Really?" Jim counters dryly. "So you wouldn't be contemplating how you can dig up information on a potential criminal mastermind?"

Pike sips at his coffee, eyebrow raised. "Why ever would I, son? This isn't my case."

Jim picks at the corner of his napkin. "There are ways to do research without involving the head of your department."

Who is teaching Jim these things? Chris opens his mouth to admonish his child for such thoughts, only to realize _he _is the one who has been Jim's teacher, in a sense, for the past thirteen years.

Jim looks at him, bright-eyed and daring, face older, matured, but still so much like the first time Pike met him. "Where do we start?"

_Where do we start, indeed. _"I suppose the town library isn't open for the holidays."

"It might be next week. Bones would know. You can stay with us until then, right? You can have my bed."

_I wouldn't dare leave you alone now that the idea is planted in your head, Jimmy. _"Where will you sleep? With Leonard?" he teases.

Jim flushes. "On second thought, Dad, having you around is the worst idea ever. I retract the offer."

"Too late."

Jim groans, and Pike has the sense that everything is going to be all right for the next few days—until his son goes to jail again, that is.

...Or until Archer calls him on New Year's Day. "You awake?" the man would say at six o'clock in the morning, unmindful of Pike's brain-sloshing hangover. "No, nobody's a jackass here, Christopher. Get the hell up. Somebody busted that pirate Ayel-Ali-Baba-whatever outta the hospital last night, the Town Hall's on fire, and there are Disney characters rioting on my front lawn... no, fuck, wait." A pause of blessed silence will ensue. Then, "...I think that's your _son_."

And Pike will wake up for certain, vaguely recalling Jim and Leonard dressing up in costumes for a New Year's Eve party the night before, and regret every life choice he has ever made. Then he will scramble out of bed and make those poor life choices over again.

**The End**


End file.
